The air hung thick, a noxious cocktail of stale Cuban cigars and a fear so potent it felt solid. Jackson, a gaunt specter of his former self, clutched a photograph – a young girl with eyes that shone like emeralds and a smile that could melt glaciers. It was Evelyne, his daughter, stolen from him years ago by Ashton.
Across from him, Detective Miller, a rookie cop with eyes full of naive idealism, squirmed in his seat. " Ashton Knight? " he scoffed, a tremor betraying his bravado. " The Don. The one who whispers and empires crumble. He owns this city, Mr. Jackson, every brick and every soul it holds. "
Jackson slammed the photo facedown, the impact echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous room. Miller flinched. " He took her, Detective. My little girl. Ten years she's been gone, thirteen
