The silence in the booth of The Sapphire Cask was no longer just heavy; it was clinical. The ambient jazz of the lounge seemed to fade into a dull hum, leaving only the sound of three men breathing and the distant, rhythmic clink of ice against glass at the bar.
Darius reached into his coat and placed a thick, cream-colored manila envelope on the polished wood. He slid it toward Ryan, but his father didn't move. Ryan stared at the paper for a long minute, his hands resting on his lap, refusing to even touch the document. It was as if the envelope represented the very thing he had spent twenty years trying to outrun.
Finally, Ryan's hand moved. His fingertips hovered over the paper, tracing the embossed seal of the Meridian Trust. He didn't pick it up yet; he just rested his fingers there, as if trying to gauge the weight of the hotels, restaurants, and lives described inside.
