KNOX
The office door was already open when I arrived.
I stepped inside and nearly tripped over shattered glass glinting across the blood-red rug.
The thick scent of whiskey hit me immediately, pungent and unmistakable. From the way it soaked into the air, I'd say he'd smashed the bottle not long ago.
Dante paced behind his desk, fists tangled in his hair. The heavy chair had been flung out of the way, lying at an awkward angle against the wall. Papers littered the floor—contracts, old letters, even a council-sealed file torn straight down the middle. A bottle rested on the desk's edge, its remaining contents bleeding in a slow, sticky trail across the wood.
"Fucking piece of shit!" he snarled—first in English, then in rapid, clipped Italian—ignoring my presence completely.
I scoffed under my breath.
And this was the man the Seer expected me to explain the ritual couldn't happen to? I might as well start praying for my head to stay attached to my neck.
I cleared my throat.
