Chapter 106 Blades In His Hands

• They arrived in drips and clusters, shadows folding into the mansion’s light like ink spilled over parchment.
• Horace’s men met each arrival with that practiced half-bow that said more than words—recognition, calculation, the quiet measurement of usefulness. Inside the great room the air smelled of cigar smoke and old money; outside, the city hummed, ignorant.
• Horace stood at the head of his table like a conductor, cigar a dark baton between stained fingers. His voice found the room with the same effortless gravity it always did. “Here’s what you’ll do. Intercept his next drop. I want his couriers scared and bleeding, but alive enough to crawl back and tell him what happened. Take one of the shipments and burn it, right where his buyers can see the flames. Let the street know Hardy can’t protect his goods.”