The bass from the dance floor below thumped through the glass walls of Club Paradiso, her pride and money-laundering masterpiece. From her office above, Catalina Morales watched the sea of lights and bodies through a haze of cigarette smoke. The phone pressed to her ear crackled with the thick accent of her Colombian associates.

“No, mi amor,” she said smoothly, swirling her glass of rum, “you tell Don Esteban to double the next shipment. We are selling it like candy here. The demand is like never before.”

The door to her office opened without knocking. Catalina didn’t look up, she simply raised one manicured hand, palm outward for them to wait, her gold rings flashing in the low light.

She leaned back in her chair, smiled into the receiver, and added, “If Esteban wants profit he will send more, simple as.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, she hung up the phone and finally turned her gaze toward the one who had entered her office.