The Castle Gambit

Smoke and Whiskey

The hum of voices in the atrium buzzed like a hive as Romero Escobar adjusted his tie and glanced around. His jacket smelled faintly of smoke—cheap cigars from a venture capitalist he had no choice but to humor earlier. A glass of whiskey sweated in his hand, the ice melting faster than it should under the glaring chandeliers. The gala was supposed to be networking heaven, but Romero hated these kinds of events. Too much talk, not enough action.

He spotted the suits first—polished men and women whose steps never faltered, every movement a precise calculation. Then he saw him.

Julian Porter.

Romero recognized him from industry articles—pristine, unflappable, like something carved from marble. His suit was razor-sharp, his tie a perfect Windsor knot. A glass of red wine hung lazily in his hand, untouched, like he’d ordered it just to hold something. Even from across the room, Romero felt the weight of Julian’s presence, the air around him vibrating with controlled intensity.

“Capital Investments’ golden boy,” said Tybalt Kane, sidling up like a wolf scenting prey. Tybalt’s cologne was sharp and cloying, a concoction designed to dominate any space. “And you’re Monterrey’s prodigal son. You two should talk.”