The room smelled of smoke and whiskey. The heavy curtains were half-drawn, muting the afternoon light that filtered through the glass. Papers were scattered across the desk — some old, some new — but every page had Cruz’s signature somewhere at the bottom.
He sat in his leather chair, a cigar between his fingers, staring at the thin curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling. His face was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came from years of power and blood.
The door creaked open.
Adrian stepped inside quietly. His movements were steady, but his eyes were sharp — filled with something Cruz hadn’t seen in years. Anger.
Cruz didn’t look up at first. “You could’ve knocked, son.”
Adrian’s voice was low. “I didn’t think I needed permission to walk into my father’s study.”
Cruz finally rai
