The room was dim, lit only by the warm amber glow of my desk lamp. I sat in my leather chair, the glass of whiskey in my hand barely touched.

My jaw ached from how tightly I’d been clenching it, my patience hanging by a thread.

Marco walked in, his face tight with hesitation. That hesitation already told me the news wasn’t going to be good.

“They only sent thirty percent,” he said quietly, like speaking it any louder might make it worse.

I blinked once, slowly. “Thirty… ...