"Jones!" Vincent called out, making Jones freeze mid-sentence. Jones's mouth snapped shut, his chest heaved a bit as he registered the tone. Vincent had already shifted his attention away from him, and back to Marcus.
Always Marcus.
Jones's jaw clenched. Four years. Four years of sitting in emergency meetings, of rebuilding fractured partnerships, of cleaning up the mess Marcus left behind when he set Thug on fire on his way out. Four years of proving himself invaluable, of earning that seat beside Vincent at the table. And that seat had now been occupied by that disease who just reclaimed it like it had been waiting for him the whole time.
And Vincent had let him. He didn't even try to defend even with hesitation.
Jones knew what would happen if Marcus said he was coming back. Vincent would bend. He always had. Everyone in this room knew it. And that made Jones's careful climb, his years of defending Thug's interests, feel suddenly, and humiliatingly pointless.
