The smoke lingered between them, thick and stubborn, curling into the single lightbulb that hummed above.
The table between Dominic and Grigor was scarred with burn marks, half-empty glasses, and packs of cigarettes no one cared to put away.
Grigor leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. He finally exhaled, his tone came out steady, and almost too calm when he spoke.
"I'm not scared of Carlos," he said. "And I don't hate you."
Dominic's jaw tightened. He shifted his weight slightly, his hand brushing over the edge of the glass but not lifting it. A quiet sigh escaped him before he answered, voice low.
"You should be."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Grigor gave a half-smile, almost amused. "You think fear is the only thing that keeps men alive? I've survived longer than most of Carlos' men combined. Fear never kept me breathing. Strategy did."
Dominic's eyes narrowed. "And where does your strategy put you now? With me, or with him?"
