The gate opens.
Inside, it smells like bleach over mold. Like someone tried to scrub tobacco out of concrete and failed. The cold is artificial, aggressive. The AC is set high and still losing.
The place is built like a house, but is actually a business place. His core headquarters. Tobacco in the back, everything else in the front.
The living room is a set.
Huge crucifix over a fireplace that has not been lit in years because it's so hot here, the wood would sweat. A TV on mute playing football, light flickering over everything. Framed photos everywhere — Santos with a state deputy, both grinning with cigars, Santos holding a fat cigar alone like it was a trophy, Santos with two Russians in leather jackets who don't smile in any photo. A glass coffee table with a chessboard on it, mid-game. He is playing alone.
