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... aving, the metallic tang of blood filling the air. Four dead men lay scattered across the expensive Italian rugs like discarded trash.
I turned my head slowly toward the wall. Lorenzo Marchetti was backed into a corner, his hands shaking so violently he couldn’t even unclip his holster.
His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. He looked at the carnage I had wrought in twenty seconds and realized he hadn’t invited a businessman to dinner. He had invited the devil.
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