Through Ciano's communicator lenses Richard's eyes, usually pools of calm, held a determined glint as he turned to Ciano, a subtle nod passing between them. "It's time, bring him in." he murmured, his voice a low, resonant hum that Ciano, with his enhanced senses, perfectly caught.
Ciano responded with an equally subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, a silent acknowledgment of the monumental task ahead.
The scent of processed coca leaf hung heavy in the air, a familiar perfume to Nicolau Silva. He sat at a crude wooden desk in a makeshift office, deep within one of his primary cocaine production sites.
The rhythmic thud of industrial presses vibrated through the floorboards, a constant reminder of his empire's pulse. Around him, men worked with a silent efficiency, their faces grimed, their movements precise. On the wall hung a large, hand-drawn map of the Amazon, marked with various territories and rival gang strongholds, an ever-changing tapestry of power.
