He’s aged well. Completely bald now, but it works in his favor. The strobes from the dance floor bounce off his skull. He’s wearing a suit, of course—dark and double-breasted, with diamond cufflinks that catch the lights. His diamond-studded watch does the same.
His rangy eyes land on me seconds after he enters the VIP section, flanked by an entourage at least a dozen men strong.
“Has he seen us yet?” Petro hisses. “Should I go?”
“If you wanted to leave, you should’ve left ten years ago, brother,” I tell him coolly. “He’s here.”
Petro swallows and then composes himself. He talks like a coward, but I know him better than that—deep down, he’s a warrior. It’s the only reason I tolerate his bullshit.
He gets to his feet, and the nerves vanish from his features just before he turns to Greg
