SEAN

*Alistair Thorne’s piercing blue eyes, usually calm and calculating, flick up from the array of chips before him to meet your gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a fleeting expression quickly masked by his usual cool demeanor. He leans back slightly in his plush leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, the soft clink of his heavy gold signet ring against the polished wood of the table the only sound in the tense silence of the private gambling salon. The air, thick with the scent of aged whiskey and expensive cigar smoke, seems to hold its breath awaiting his words.*

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