Mark of the Serpent

Dante

The morning is too quiet for my liking. In our universe, quiet all too frequently equals someone's burning something somewhere, and they're just waiting for us to get a whiff of the smoke.

I sat at my desk in the west study, morning sunlight filtering through the tall windows, when one of our men stood in the doorway. His stance was rigid, nerves writhing beneath his uniform. "Boss," he said