In one of the rooms in the club , Dante sat on the couch with a drink in his hand swirling it.
"So," Logan began, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand as the warm amber light of the underground club reflected against its crystal facets, "what are you going to do with the Anstornes?"
Dante leaned back on the leather armchair, the lines of exhaustion etched into his features now sharpened by quiet fury. A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched the golden liquid in his own glass ripple with each flick of his finger.
"We're going to give them a little shake of their own medicine," he said slowly, his voice cold and deliberate. "An eye for an eye."
Lucien, lounging against the bar counter, arched a brow with an amused smirk. "Another accident? Are we doing poetic justice now?"
