Lucas

I never liked silence. Not this kind of silence, anyway. It wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, coiled like a predator waiting to strike. The kind of silence that made your skin itch with awareness because you knew something—or someone—was out there, watching.

My glass of whiskey sweated in my hand, but I hadn’t touched it in ten minutes. The amber liquid sat untouched, its reflection broken by the faint tremor in my grip. Enzo leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his eyes ...