Chapter 152 Redhanded

• VICENTE’S POV
• The North American wolves truly believed that age was a mathematical weakness. They looked at my silvered hair, my tailored human suits, and the quiet, deliberate weariness I chose to wear like a cloak, and they assumed I was merely a relic to be pitied—a grieving grandfather brought across the Atlantic to hold his granddaughter's hand.
• They had no idea that at ninety-seven years old, just three years shy of a full century on this earth, I possessed more tactical experience in my left hand than their entire rogue faction had combined in their short, reckless lives.