Chapter 118 Blind Swings, Hidden Players

• Ethan's head was pounding, each throb a reminder of how spectacularly everything had gone to shit. The kind of mess that made South Side gang wars look like kindergarten squabbles. His fingers pressed against his temples, trying to massage away the reality that was bearing down on him like a freight train.
• The whiskey bottle beckoned. He grabbed it, poured himself a glass like his life depended on it. Arthur's eyes followed the amber liquid, and without a word, Ethan knew his old man wanted in.
• The chair screamed against concrete as Ethan shoved it back. Chicago's finest furniture didn't belong in this basement office, but then again, neither did they anymore. He passed the bottle to Arthur, his movements sharp, controlled—barely