The ballroom’s been done up in warm gold lighting and white linens, dotted with centerpieces of hothouse roses. Needless to say, there’s crystal f*****g everywhere.
I’ve been here for an hour already, and it’s quickly found a home at the top of my rankings for Longest Hours of My f*****g Life. The Glock is tucked into the small of my back, under my jacket, nestled against a slick of sweat.
Raymond is in rare form tonight. He’s on his fourth bourbon, and it shows. “—and I told the kid, ‘Look, son, if you don’t know the difference between a 10b-5 claim and your own asshole, you’ve got no business in this room.’” He cackles and slaps the table so hard that the ice in everyone’s glasses jumps. “Right, Matvei? Tell them. Tell them what I told the kid.”
“You told the kid,” I say evenly, “that
