Page 59 of Cozen

And the youngest at twenty-five, Dash.

Apparently born to Jett’s now-dead wife, Anabelle. Sargon didn’t know much about the dead woman, and it wasn’t a topic that was open for discussion. Jett didn’t allow people to talk about her, not even his own sons.

“You should do the deal with the—”

“Both,” Dash interjected. “Dad should do it with both of them.”

“That’s called signing your own death warrant,” Silas returned.

Sargon rolled his eyes upward, and stepped into the entrance. If all they were discussing was business, he had no interest in spying. Jett’s business dealings with various crime organizations held little interest to him.

The moment Sargon stepped into the entryway, all eyes in the room turned on him. He found Jett’s sons—younger mirrors of their father in appearance—to be slightly more tolerable than the men he was forced to work with.

“Finally,” Jett grumbled as he slammed his laptop shut. “Go find something to do, Silas, and take Dash with you. I will be around later.”

Silas passed Sargon a look, and then glanced at his father’s closed laptop. “But—”

“I am doing both deals. End of discussion.”

A deep scowl etched into Silas’ face before he nodded once. “Fine.”

Dash looked all too smug as he patted his father on the back, and then made a beeline for the doorway. “You’re making the right choice, Dad.”

Silas followed behind. “A choice that’s going to either kill him, or ruin this operation, sure.”

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that!”

The two men passed Sargon by in the entryway, and gave him a polite nod. Their three-piece suits were cut and tailored perfectly for their tall heights, and wide shoulders. He knew some people found the Griffin sons to be a bit … intimidating.

Sargon wasn’t one of those people.

Barely anyone intimidated him.

Sure, the Griffin sons were arrogant, far too rich for their own good, and a little difficult to deal with, but that all came with the territory of their lives. It was partly how they were raised, and more so, what their lifestyles demanded from them.

Like their father, they too worked as brokers on the black market. A weaker man would not be able to face some of the most dangerous and vile humans on the earth and walk out with a deal the way they did on a regular basis. And no worse for wear, too. They always seemed to walk out alive.

That demanded some kind of respect at the end of the day.

“Come in,” Jett said, waving a hand. “Stop standing there and making me wait longer than you already have. I am not getting any goddamn younger here, Sargon.”

“Traffic was bad.”

The excuse—as he figured it would—rolled right off Jett’s shoulders like it didn’t even matter in the first place.

“I gave you a fast car for a reason,” Jett muttered before pointing at a chair. “Sit, and give me what you’ve got.”

Sargon approached the left side of the table, and pulled out a chair closest to Jett’s at the head seat. Unceremoniously dropping into the seat—an action that raised an eyebrow from Jett—he could only shrug.

“It’s been a long day,” Sargon muttered.

“I bet. Sitting in a car all day long can be tiring.”

“It is when you sit and wait for nothing.”

Jett’s amusement faded fast. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing is happening. So I sit and wait for nothing.”