The forty-second floor conference room felt like the morning after a wild night. The same bottle of Clase Azul Reposado sat on the table, a relic of a celebration that now seemed hollow. The Manhattan skyline glittered beyond the windows, a stark contrast to the tension inside. Three men sat around the table, their faces etched with concern, like they'd just discovered a crack in their otherwise flawless empire. The euphoria of victory had given way to paranoia in a mere twenty-four hours.
Vincent Castellano's silver hair was perfectly coiffed, as if styled by a precision artist. However, his eyes betrayed a different story - they were hungry, sensing a problem that needed to be devoured. This situation felt too orchestrated, too convenient, and predators don't like surprises that aren't on their terms.
