The night was quiet and heavy.
Cruz sat in his office, an old man surrounded by smoke and silence.
The room smelled of whiskey, cigars, and old books.
He leaned back in his leather chair, the light from the desk lamp falling across the deep lines on his face.
His gray hair was slicked back, and his eyes were dark with memory.
He took a slow drag from his cigar and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
The ember glowed red in the dim light.
Everything around him was calm, but the calm felt dangerous.
The sound of the door opening broke the silence.
A young man stepped inside.
He was tall, strong, and carried the same cold eyes as his father.
His name was Adrian Cruz, the youngest son of the old Mafia boss.
“Dad,” Adrian said quietly.
Cruz didn’t look up right away. He just tapped
