The table he sat on was crescent-shaped, carved from a single slab of ebony, and top of it was an already opened bottle of Pinot Noir and a half filled glass.
Archibald Theodore Mooney.
He was dressed just as Darren had imagined. Not literally, but the vision remained.
A vision of calculated menace. It was like there was this smoke of burning aura seeping out of him, billowing from his bespoke Armani suit— matte black, devoid of unnecessary flourish— that clung to his lean frame like armor forged for boardrooms rather than battlefields.
His silver hair was combed neatly and his neat beard gave him the look of some ancient fantasy king. A crescent moon pin at his collar caught the light, a subtle emblem of his empire.
At that same moment, he was scrutinizing Darren just as much as Darren was scrutinizing him. But his eyes, they were freaking intense.
