Chapter 48 Old Promises

• Club Octana hadn't changed in two years. Same red velvet curtains, same crystal chandeliers, same overpriced whiskey that tasted like liquid smoke.
• Salvatore sat across from Santino in their old corner booth. The leather was cracked now, worn thin by countless conversations between men who thought they could outsmart the world.
• "You look like absolute shit," Salvatore said, pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses.