Azriel's Point Of View
Diego laughed. It was an ugly, raspy bark that rattled off the greasy tile walls of the restaurant kitchen, a sound that seemed to scrape its way up from somewhere deep and rotten in his chest. The laugh went on a beat too long, as though he needed to convince himself of its sincerity, as though repetition alone might make the sound true. It was the laugh of a man performing for an audience that had already stopped watching.
He gestured wildly with the heavy automatic pistol in his hand, shaking his head like he was listening to the world's most ridiculous joke, one only he seemed to understand. His men shifted uneasily behind him, none of them quite willing to laugh along. A few exchanged glances, the kind that passed between men who sensed something wrong but lacked the courage to name it.
