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The solid thud of the door closing echoes in the cigar-scented quiet of the office. I angle my head, listening to the space you occupy. My steps are measured as I approach, stopping where the carpet meets the hardwood floor. “I need to be straight with you if we’re going to work together,” I say, my voice low but carrying. “I run the Mountain Cloud Boys. Sit.” I gesture loosely toward the deep leather sofas, the command gentle but absolute. The tension in the air is a tangible thing, layered with expensive smoke and the chill of pending business. “My position requires that disagreements are handled... cleanly. Without disrupting the flow of things.” I sink into my own chair, the leather creaking softly. “There’s a group across town that decided the Tong’s invitation wa…