This is why Zenon's my VP.
He sees things. Anticipates problems before they become problems.
Some of the brothers think he's too cautious, too careful.
They're wrong.
Careful is how you stay out of prison and stay alive.
"Talk to Lazarus," I say. "Have him scout alternative routes. I want options by Friday."
"Done." Zenon doesn't move, though. He's watching me with that look—the one that says he's got something else on his mind. "You coming out tonight? Brothers are getting restless. Been a while since you showed your face at a party."
"I show my face plenty."
"You show up, drink one beer, and disappear into your office. That's not the same thing." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I get it. You've got shit to handle. But moralematters, Levi. The guys need to see their Prez isn't a fucking robot."
I want to argue.
I don't have time for parties, for bullshit small talk, for watching brothers get drunk and handsy with the clubwhores.
I've got a business to run. An empire to protect.
But Zenon's not wrong.
Leadership isn't just about making the hard calls.
It's about presence. Connection. Making men feel like they're part of something bigger than themselves.
Salvo taught me that.
"Fine," I say. "One hour."
"Two."
"Don't push it."
He grins again, standing. "Wouldn't dream of it, Prez."
The clubhouse is loud.
Music pounds from the speakers—some rock song I don't recognize—and the main room is packed with bodies.
Brothers in their cuts, clubwhores in too-tight dresses, hang arounds trying to look like they belong.
Smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the smell of whiskey and perfume and sweat.
I stand near the bar, nursing a beer I don't really want, watching.
That's what I do. I watch. I observe. I take note of who's talking to whom, who's drinking too much, who's got tension in their shoulders that wasn't there last week.
Information is currency. The more I have, the better I can protect what's mine.
Sipher's at the pool table, running the game like he always does.
Behemoth's in the corner, quiet and watchful—good man, solid, doesn't talk unless he's got something worth saying.
Stark and Death are at a table, arguing about something, probably football.
