V stood tall, his broad shoulders filling out a tailored jet-black suit. His dark hair was combed back, sharp and neat. He held a crystal glass of amber liquor in one hand, completely relaxed, while three older men with gray hair and expensive watches circled around him like dogs waiting for scraps.

"The northern shipping lines belong to us now, Master," an older man with gold-rimmed glasses said, bowing his head slightly in respect. "The council voted unanimously this afternoon. Nobody dared to raise an objection."