The room did not loosen after that.
If anything, the silence grew heavier, pressing down until even the smallest sounds, the clink of a glass, the scrape of a chair, felt dangerously loud. Smoke hung thick and unmoving beneath the amber lights, as though the air itself had chosen to wait.
The silver-haired man leaned back at last. The leather of his chair creaked softly. He tapped the end of his cigar into the tray with deliberate slowness, his gaze sweeping across the table, not hurried, not angry, but final.
"This discussion is over," he said quietly.
No one argued.
Not because they agreed, but because they understood. Some lines in this world were never drawn in ink. Santiago stood at the center of one of them. You did not cross it blindly. You did not test it without first counting the cost.
"And the girl?" one man asked, his voice lower now, as though speaking her name carried its own risk.
The silver-haired man paused for a single beat.
Then he rose.
"Watch her."
