The air in the small, circular meeting room was thick, heavy with years of simmering resentment. We were in the neutral zone of the compound, a purpose-built room with white walls, steel finishes, and no windows—a space designed for cold, rational decisions, not emotional outbursts.

I sat at the head of the table next to Vladimir, who was utterly still, observing. The conflict itself was tedious: Anatoly, the Capo of the southern border regions, was locked in a bitter, costly dispute with ...