"So you give me the wallet, eh?" the patriarch asked. Not in a suggestive manner.
At this point, the air in the Lotus Triad's private room was extremely thick, and the light from the chandelier only seemed to be pointing at the barrels of ten rifles and pistols aimed at Darren and Rachel.
The faint floral scent, like rotting lotus blossoms, clung to every breath, heavy with the weight of danger.
Even with the guns pointed at him, Darren stood tall, his wrists still bound in cuffs, the cold wallet pressed against his chest inside his tux.
His face was a mask of calm, his eyes steady, locked on the patriarch, Viktor Dragomir. Being calm and collected was an intentional move by Darren. He couldn't afford to lose his cool— not now, not with Rachel trembling beside him and death staring them down.
A single misstep could end them both.
"It's in my chest pocket," he said, sweeping his gaze through the room knowingly.
The guns lowered and Viktor signaled someone to retrieve it.
