New Life

The sterile white of the interrogation room seemed to mock me. I’d spent enough time in places like this, but never as the one on the inside, the one being *told*. Agent Miller’s voice, usually a sharp rap against my eardrums, was now a low, almost mournful hum. “He’s gone, Mr. Stamp. Jacob Woodville. They found him this morning.”

My breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in my chest. Gone. The word hung in the air, thick and cloying, like the smell of stale coffee and desperation. I’d known it was a matter of time. The Don’s reach was long, his retribution swift and brutal. But hearing it… hearing it confirmed the precariousness of my own position, the tightrope I was walking over a pit of vipers.

“Found him where?” I managed, my voice a little rougher than I intended. I tried to keep my face neutral, a mask of professional concern, but inside, a cold dread was beginning to seep in.