The meeting room smelled of expensive whiskey and power.

Giovanni Cingarette sat comfortably on the edge of one of Kingston’s antique leather chairs, keeping his legs crossed and his hands steepled over his knee.

His silver cufflinks gleamed, matching the cold glint in his eyes.

He wore his usual dark suit, tailored to perfection, with a blood-red pocket square that screamed menace in silence.

Across from him, Mr. Kingston stood, still silent, still unreadable. He studied Giovanni like a tiger eyeing a rival predator who'd dared step into his jungle.

“I must say,” Giovanni began, voice smooth, almost charming, “this house hasn’t changed in years.

You know? It still has...