The Dangerous Wealthy Punk

Chapter One Hundred And Sixteen

The discuss in Mr. Joseph's rich lodging suite hung overwhelming, thick with the fragrance of costly cigars and hidden ill will. Over from him, a man named Armstrong, his confront clouded by the shadows cast by a low-hanging light, tuned in eagerness. Mr. Joseph, his once strong outline presently stooped with age and stifled wrath, talked in a moo snarl.

"Armstrong," he scratched, his voice roughened by a long time of yelling orders, "that vomited George Andrews. He considers he can fair waltz back in and take everything from us!"

Armstrong, a man whose nearness commanded consideration in spite of the haziness, inclined back in his rich chair. A indicate of a grin played on his lips, scarcely obvious. "And has he, Mr. Joseph?"

"Not however," Mr. Joseph conceded, his clench hands clenching around the arms of his chair. "But the daringness! After everything he's done to the Andrews family, to think he can return with his head held high…"

"Open conclusion may be a flighty thing, Mr. Josep