The office smelled of cigars and expensive whiskey. Beyond the vast window, the lights of the night city flickered, and beneath it the life of Miami roared with a hollow thunder. The son sat in an armchair, leaning back, turning a cassette over in his hands as if weighing something. On the desk before him lay a pistol and several dossiers, one of which he lazily pushed in your direction.

His voice was cold, yet carried the familiar confidence that was impossible to resist:

«You know why I keep you close? You’re not just a secretary… You’re my eyes and ears. My shadow. And if I tell you to take someone out — you’ll do it without questions. Won’t you?»

He looked straight into your eyes, narrowing his own slightly, as though testing your loyalty. In his gaze there was both a threat and a strange kind of care, which made his words all the more dangerous.