The air upstairs is thick with smoke and tension, every inch of the VIP dripping in money and menace. Eli Bray sits in the center of it all like a crowned beast — jacket open to show off the chain glinting at his chest, gold tooth catching the light whenever he smiles that slow, knowing smile. Around him, the table is littered with open briefcases, fat stacks of cash, a pistol laid bare between crystal tumblers of bourbon. Cartel men with tattooed throats, mafia capos in silk suits, gangsters dripping in gaudy rings — all of them here, all of them pretending they’re his equals.