4

Scar

I accept the cigar from Orin Callahan, clip the end, and light it with my own torch. "Very nice," I say, nodding with satisfaction as I take a deep puff. "Cuban?"

"Of course," Orin says, grinning. He sips a whiskey, ice clinking in the glass. The room is dim and smoky, dominated by a large table and surrounded by storage shelves. We're deep in a back room, hidden behind racks of dry goods. The door is lost in shadows somewhere behind me. Orin dominates the space, though his four sons take up plenty of room on their own. I'm at the far end, closest to the door. "You know, Cubans aren't even all that much better these days."

"Status symbol," his son Nolan says, a tall boy with dark hair and light eyes.

"Like you know a fucking thing about status," Carson says, another Callahan son, this one broader with freckles and a loud laugh.

Nolan's about to rip into his brother but Orin waves them off. "Enough, boys." He glares at his children, all four of them. Finley, the youngest, sits bac