[Darius's POV]
The house in Pembroke Pines was too nice for a drug supplier.
Stucco walls. Tile roof. A circular driveway with a fountain that didn't work. The kind of house a man bought when he wanted to look like he had more money than he did, or when he had more money than he wanted anyone to know about. Darius parked on the street and walked to the door. No weapon. No phone. The rules were the rules.
Salazar opened the door himself. He was wearing a guayabera and slacks and his face had the same calm it always had — the calm of a man who sold poison and slept fine.
"Darius. Come in."
The house smelled like coffee and furniture polish. The living room had leather couches and a TV that was off and a table set with two cups and a pot. Salazar sat on one side. Darius sat on the other.
"You know why I called you here," Salazar said.
"You want to talk about the south."
