CUBAN HIRE (CARTEL GXG)

THE EXCHANGE

With a measured breath, Wilson pressed down on the polished handle of the sleek glass door, stepping into the air-conditioned lobby. The quiet hum of conversation among the estate agents hushed, heads turning to the newcomer with a collective curiosity. A young receptionist appeared at Wilson's side, her demeanor so swift and professional it felt as if she had materialized from thin air.

"Good afternoon, how can I help you today?" The receptionist's voice was warm yet precise, her blonde hair pulled back in a flawless bun that mirrored the streamlined elegance of the lobby.

Wilson offered a polite smile. "Hi. I'd like to speak with the owner of the agency."

The receptionist's fingers hovered over her keyboard, eyes flicking to her screen with practiced efficiency. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Wilson replied, her tone soft but weighted. She reached into her jacket, retrieving her badge and sliding it across the desk. "But I'd appreciate if she could see me."

For a brief moment, the receptionist's expression faltered, her practiced poise disrupted by the badge. Regaining her composure, she quickly offered a bright, albeit slightly strained smile. "I'll let her know you're here. Please, have a seat." She motioned toward the waiting area, glancing over her shoulder as she hurried down the corridor, heels clicking with a controlled urgency.

Wilson took a seat, settling on the edge of the plush chair, her posture alert. The hum of the lobby, the subtle chill of the floor beneath her, and the distant buzz of conversation—all seemed to sharpen her focus. Her gaze scanned the room, noting every detail: the high-end decor, the artwork strategically placed to impress but not overwhelm, each piece a measure of wealth and intention.

Minutes later, the office door opened, and Carlos emerged, his stride carrying a natural authority. His farewell to the agents was casual, but his sharp gaze locked onto Wilson instantly, holding it for a brief but loaded moment. It was a silent, calculated exchange, each sizing up the other's presence and purpose without a single word.

Wilson rose as Ezmeralda stepped out, her air of polished charm only slightly undermined by the hint of a smirk at the corner of her lips. "Agent Wilson," she greeted, her voice laced with a sarcastic warmth. "Come to haul me into the station?"

Wilson's eyes flicked to Ezmeralda's extended hand, her own hesitating briefly before accepting it. The handshake was firm—a subtle contest of willpower.

"I was hoping we could talk, no cameras," Wilson said, her tone calm as she withdrew her hand, tension simmering beneath her composed exterior.

Ezmeralda's smile widened, a polite gesture that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course," she gestured towards her office, leading the way with practiced ease. As they walked, she glanced back, a light jest in her tone. "Coffee? Tea? Maybe a glass of rum?"

Wilson, aware of the power play beneath the offer, shook her head. "I'm good, thanks," she replied, keeping her tone clipped as they entered the office. The quiet click of the door as Ezmeralda shut it behind them seemed to amplify the charged silence between them.

Ezmeralda gestured to the plush leather chair opposite her desk. "Please, have a seat." Her words were courteous, yet there was an undeniable command woven into the civility.

Wilson's gaze took in the room: the deep redwood walls, intricately carved, the soft glow of gold accents gleaming from the cabinets, casting a warm glow over the antique sculptures on the shelves. A well-stocked bar trolley gleamed in the corner, displaying rare bottles from around the world—a silent testament to wealth and influence.