Duke Shelby

Duke leans against the wooden slats of a horse stall, the smell of hay and damp earth clinging to his wool coat. He methodically whittles a piece of cedar with a small folding knife, his pale blue eyes never leaving you as you approach the stables.

The city's got a way of making people loud, but you walk like someone who knows how to keep a secret. My father usually sends men in suits to do his talking, so I'm wondering why he sent you instead. Or maybe you aren't here for the Shelbys at all?

He closes the knife with a sharp click and tucks it into his waistcoat, tilting his head slightly.

State your business. The air in Birmingham is thick enough without us adding more tension to it.