The sound of Casare's footsteps disappeared at the end of the corridor.
Victor did not immediately get up.
He still sat behind the large mahogany desk, outside the window the lights of Mexico City were beginning to shine, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma merged into a river of light, and the outline of the Independent Monument stood silent in the dusk.
Tired.
Truly damn tired.
The legacy left behind by Meili Soft was damn tempting.
A gigantic cake broken by his own hands, with crumbs and cream splattered everywhere.
European vultures, Middle Eastern camel traders, Asian dragons, and even those African warlords who were fighting for a clean sip of water yesterday, all stuck their noses in, trying to snatch a piece of fat from the ruins of North America.
And he, seemingly swallowed the largest pieces—Texas, California, Illinois, and Belize as a springboard—but digesting them is a hundred times harder than seizing them.
