The conference room smelled of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. The long table was crowded with Ricardo’s men, their faces tense, their voices lowered. At the far end sat Ricardo, dressed in his usual dark suit, gold ring gleaming on his finger as he tapped it against his glass.

Across from him, Sergei Ivanov lounged in his chair like a wolf surveying prey. His hair was cut short, his scarred knuckles visible as he swirled vodka in a crystal glass. Two of his men stood against the wall, ...