The man Tryson had been staring at bore a distinct mark on his wrist—a tattoo of a serpent coiling menacingly like a twist on his skin.
It was an unmistakable symbol, a silent declaration of loyalty, worn by every member of the notorious Alexander mafia clan.
That meant only one thing.
They were Arthur's men.
A shadow passed over Tryson's expression as his gaze darkened, his mind piecing together the puzzle at an alarming speed. His voice, low and edged with certainty, broke the tense silence.
"He's been here."
The weight of those words settled heavily in the room, and every man present instinctively turned their attention toward Tryson.
They knew exactly who he was referring to—Arthur.
These men hadn't just been stationed in the room as mere security personnel; no, this was a setup.
