1
Archie
It would have been so easy to mistake the wine for blood.
The man sitting across from me kept swirling it in his glass without drinking it.I could tell exactly the kind of man he was by the way he did that…
People who come to negotiate drink.People who come to threaten stall.
The restaurant around us hummed with quiet luxury.Low lighting and soft music.Waiters moving noiselessly between tables.
I rested my elbows on the table and studied him.
He had the look of a man who thought he was clever.The type who practiced confidence in the mirror before leaving the house.
His haircut was too precise, the lines around the temples freshly shaved like he’d stopped by a barber an hour before this meeting.His watch was expensive—very expensive—but the way he angled his wrist when he spoke told me he wanted me to notice it.His suit was tailored to look effortless, the fabric soft enough to pass for casual luxury while quietly costing more than most people’s annual salary.
Everything about him was rehearsed.
The posture.The smile.Even the way he held his wine glass, fingers carefully placed as though someone had once shown him how powerful men were supposed to drink.
But the performance was thin.
Men who owned that kind of wealth didn’t need to advertise it.
They wore their money the way old soldiers wore scars—without ceremony.This man, however, had built himself a costume.And I would have bet a very comfortable sum that it was all for show.Think big.Look big.Convince the world you belonged at the table long enough that no one noticed you didn’t.
I had seen the trick before.
Every city had a handful of men like him—well-rehearsed scammers who survived by pretending they were far more dangerous, connected, or valuable than they actually were.
And the moment he sat down in front of me, I knew exactly which category he belonged to.
He was sweating.
Not profusely, but enough to let me know he was nervous and trying not to show it.
Across from me, Atlas Cavalho didn’t bother hiding his boredom.
He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, his expression calm in that dangerous way that made lesser men nervous.
The man cleared his throat.
“So,” he said slowly.“Let’s talk about the situation.”
Ah.There it was.
I lifted my glass and took a slow sip of the wine.
“What situation?”I asked pleasantly.
Atlas’s mouth twitched faintly.
The man glanced between us, calculating.
“Word travels quickly,” he said.“And lately the word traveling is… expensive.”
“Everything is expensive these days,” I replied.“Inflation.”