A deal should be a deal

Marcus sat at a corner table, facing the window, a half empty glass of red wine before him. His gray hair was slicked back neatly, and his tailored navy suit carried the quiet, intimidating precision of an old man who had never learned to lose. His gold watch caught the light with every subtle movement of his hand.

He wasn’t eating. He never did when he was waiting on something important. His fingers drummed once on the table, a habit his late wife used to call his ...