The family heads filed out of the conference room in tense silence, their faces carved from stone but their body language screaming displeasure. Viktor moved first—the intelligent version, still carrying his tablet, his movements precise and controlled. Lucius Moretti followed, fedora clutched in one hand, the other clenched into a fist at his side. O'Rourke's scarred face twisted with barely suppressed anger as he passed through the doorway. The Kurobane head said nothing, but his jaw was set tight enough to crack teeth.
They weren't just displeased. They were furious.
