Azriel's Point Of View
Pain makes weak men predictable, but extreme desperation makes them profoundly, dangerously stupid.
Diego cradled his shattered wrist against his chest, his breathing ragged, his face slick with greasy sweat under the buzzing fluorescent lights of the trattoria. Something feral had crept into his expression, the look of a man who understood he'd already lost but couldn't stomach the shame of surrender.
His eyes darted between the exits, then back to me, calculating odds that had already collapsed to zero, though he refused to admit it even to himself. I had already dismissed him, already turned my shoulder toward Luca to begin clearing the back rooms.
The kitchen reeked of scorched garlic and old grease, and somewhere beneath it lingered the coppery tang of blood that hadn't been there an hour ago. It was the smell of a night sliding irreversibly out of control, though only one of us in that room seemed to sense it yet.
