Chapter 2 - Inside the Brutalist Fortress
Friday arrived with the grim inevitability of a tooth extraction. I wore black work slacks, comfortable shoes, and a simple button-down shirt, taking two separate buses to the sprawling cliffside estate overlooking the ocean. The property was a modern brutalist fortress of concrete, glass, and dark wood, surrounded by towering pine trees and ten-foot iron security gates.
A heavy steel call box buzzed when I pressed the button, and after a brief inspection of my name, the gates swung open on silent hinges. At the front entrance, Luca—the massive guard with the flattened nose from the restaurant—patted me down with professional, impersonal efficiency.
"Arms up," Luca muttered, his eyes scanning the perimeter before gesturing me inside. "Don't talk to the guests. Don't look at the cards on the table. You pour drinks, clear glasses, and serve food. If you hear something you shouldn't, pretend you're deaf. Clear?"
"Got it," I whispered.
He led me through a cavernous, sparsely furnished hallway and pushed open a pair of heavy double doors. Blue cigar smoke hazed the room, where five powerful men sat around an oak table stacked high with black-and-gold poker chips. At the head of the table sat Roman. He wore a crisp white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, exposing faded ink and old scars along his forearms.
When I entered, he gave me a slight, imperceptible nod. Luca handed me a silver tray and a heavy crystal glass.
"Macallan twenty-five, neat. Bring it to Donovan," Luca instructed, pointing to a heavyset, red-faced man sweating profusely on the left side of the table.
I poured the amber scotch, walked over, and lowered the tray. "Your drink, sir."
May you like
Donovan didn't even look up. He snatched the glass so hard the liquid sloshed over the rim and onto his fingers. "Watch it, sweetheart."
"Apologies," I murmured, stepping back into the shadows. For the next hour, I stood quietly in the corner, watching the high-stakes game unfold. Tension hung thickly in the smoke, and Donovan was losing badly. Chips steadily migrated across the green felt toward Roman, who played with mechanical, ruthless precision.
