The doors opened, and the room went dead silent.
Nobody moved. Nobody said anything for a good few seconds. The private dining room took up the whole top floor of the tower, one wall just glass from floor to ceiling, the Spires spread out below like scattered lights. A single round table for six was in the middle, already loaded with more silverware than any meal actually needed.
Lorenzo Perez was sitting facing the door, relaxed, a glass of something dark red in hand. Older than Nash expected, silver hair combed back, not a strand out of place, deep lines cut into his face that somehow read as distinguished instead of old, the kind of face that just photographed well without trying.
His suit was dark, simple, and obviously expensive if you knew what to look for. His hands rested loosely on the table, and honestly, he looked like he found the whole thing a little funny already.
