The meeting room smelled like cigars, old wood, and barely concealed threats, as it so often did.
Heavy velvet curtains shut out the morning sun, trapping the smoke and heat inside until it clung to your skin. The walls were lined with bodyguards—stone-faced, armed and patient.
Five dons sat around the mahogany table. Silver ashtrays, untouched glasses, and thin folders littered the surface, but no one touched a thing. Everyone waited.
Lucas didn't rush. He walked the length of the table slow, like a king inspecting his court, then poured himself a drink from the sideboard—neat bourbon, no ice. When he finally sat, he sprawled back in the chair, the picture of careless authority.
"We're moving into Colombia," he said, voice calm. Final. Even though it was supposed to be up for discussion. But he didn't think anyone would want to disagree.
Silence settled. Dons shifted slightly in their chairs, subtle but telling.
