The Last Evolution
The speakeasy on 53rd Street smelled of gin and desperation, and Julian Whitfield III sat in the back booth nursing a whiskey that cost more than most men made in a week. He didn't care about money. The Whitfield fortune had been his at twenty-one, and by twenty-three he had decided it meant precisely nothing. What meant something — what was beginning to matter with an urgency that kept him...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen