Michael
The sun fractures into golden veins across the desk’s wood, and the room settles into that half-light my father liked for deciding. I open the humidor of imported cigars, pick a mature stick, clip the cap with the guillotine and toast it with a cedar spill; the smoke goes in heavy, sweet, and anchors me. My old man had a rule for the days when the world wanted to rip out your jugular: breathe, light fire, decide without shaking. In this very chair he closed routes, opened wars, and saved the plaza with half of what I’ve got today. If he could see me, he’d ask why the Cárdenas name still smells like debt.
The decanter’s crystal ticks lightly when I pour two fingers of the whiskey he saved “for when steel sweats.” The knife rests hidden at my waist; the gun rides my back at the exa
