The conservatory of the Geneva estate was an architectural masterpiece of intimidation.
It was a sprawling, circular room enclosed almost entirely in reinforced glass, offering a panoramic, unbroken view of the freezing, ink-black waters of Lake Geneva and the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Alps beyond.
There were no paintings, no distracting sculptures. The focus was entirely on the massive, circular polished-obsidian table dominating the center of the room.
Five men sat around the table.
They didn't look like mobsters. They didn't possess the flashy, desperate arrogance of tech founders like James Sterling, nor the brittle, aristocratic pride of Richard Lockridge.
They were older, their faces lined with decades of unspeakable, unaccountable power. They wore bespoke suits that cost more than luxury cars, and they sat with the heavy, unmovable stillness of men who considered themselves untouchable.
