What had been salvaged sat in one corner of the otherwise bare office, and hands in his pockets, Dionysus paced the wide expanse of teak that admittedly had cleaned up nicely. The adjusters had descended with their clipboard and calculators, and no doubt, he would have a fat check by the end of the week that he'd misplace within an hour. When one had wealth to spare and then some, it wasn't about the money.
He'd still be sending Apollo and itemized statement, though. One of his great, great something or other grandchildren had been born on that rug. Nikos. Or was it Adreia?
Compiling a list of what to bring out of storage or import from one of the other clubs, he caught his toe on the edge of the bronze lyre that had been pushed over toward the corner, and bending to pick it up, he set it on the marble base that had once been covered by glass. At the sound of a footfall, he picked a long black hair from between the strings and frowned at the blood staining the edge of the statue. Assuming it was his PA returning after having gone down to check with the staff about Apollo's condition, the god didn't bother turning around.