DIEGO Morales’ private study was nothing short of a statement, deep mahogany shelves lined with volumes no one ever read, a grand oil painting of his father’s empire days looming over the marble fireplace, and floor-length drapes that swallowed the world outside. In here, the city couldn’t touch him. In here, he was king.

At the center of the room, Diego and Carlson sat opposite each other, a polished antique table stretched between them. The wine glasses were crystal, the bottle an aged Bordeaux worth more than most men’s annual salaries.

A soft knock at the door announced the maid’s presence. She entered, head bowed, moving like a ghost across...