Chapter 487

He tilted his head back and swallowed the red wine in one gulp. His Adam's apple rolled violently, and the wine tears on the glass slid into his palm, as if someone were silently weeping. Gehrmann watched Cline, the once-indifferent man who had crushed traitors' fingers with silver cufflinks, now clutching the wine bottle as if it were a lifebuoy in the water. He felt a lump in his chest.