We sit in silence for a minute. Just wood and whiskey and old blood.
His office always smells like this. Cedar and leather and the faint metallic tang that never really leaves after you clean a gun in here. The fire is low. Outside, the house is quiet. No guards in here, just us. That alone tells me this is not a normal debrief.
He pours me a drink I don't touch. The ice cracks.
"You know, when I found out about Castillo... I knew Santos had to go. But I kept sending you to offer. Do you know why?" He asks, not looking at me, looking at the fire.
"To give me practice negotiating."
"No." He waves that off like I'm a kid who got the wrong answer on purpose. "Any street dog can learn to negotiate. I didn't need to teach you that."
He leans forward. Elbows on the desk. That desk has seen three generations of deals, threats, and confessions.
"To see if you still would negotiate. Whether you believed in deals."
He lets that sit.
