"Is everything set?" Zane asked, his voice low but carrying an edge of authority as he stepped into the shadows of an abandoned warehouse.
The air on Deltaq Street was thick with the scent of damp concrete and rust, a contrast to the luxury of his office and the city.
"Yes," Sandro replied. He was preoccupied with the weight of a G-Clock in his palm, bending his wrist this way and that to gauge the balance. He looked at home in the gloom.
No one would ever know it, and Sandro certainly wouldn't admit it to himself, but he preferred the gritty reality of the field to the suffocating silence of a boardroom. He loved the acrid taste of gunpowder on his tongue and the percussive symphony of gunfire.
The adrenaline was a drug he had missed; and though he claimed to crave a peaceful existence after his years in the gangs, a feral excitement gleamed in his eyes.
Zane took note of that sparkle as they shook hands and couldn't help but scoff. "You are actually preening for this?"
