That same night, far removed from the happenings at the dock and Miss Claire's estate, another meeting was taking place.
This one by one of the many roads leading away from the city.
The isolated road wound through a hilly area, sparse vegetation clinging to the slopes under the faint moonlight, with the distant lights of Santos visible like a hazy glow on the horizon, a reminder of the bustling city life that felt worlds away from this desolate stretch.
On the road was a strange sight, a convoy of vehicles, black range rovers and a single silver Maybach, with men dressed in black standing around, their postures alert and weapons subtly visible at their sides, forming a protective perimeter that spoke of serious business.
By the Maybach's hood sat none other than Bernard Monclaire.
He wore a pristine attire, designer pants that hung perfectly tailored, a polo shirt tucked in with crisp lines, and loafers that gleamed even in the dim light.
