The Continental Hotel, New York.
The hotel manager, Winston, poured the drinks himself.
"I think it's been a long time since we all got together."
It was a long table that symbolized power.
Watson Wick sat at its head.
There was only one person beside him, yet that was enough to put every High Table member in New York on high alert.
A trace of nostalgia entered Watson's eyes. "Last time, I remember that spot."
He pointed to an empty seat. "Vigo was still here. He bragged to me about his manor in Northern Europe, and how beautiful the deerskin was from the deer he'd shot through the eye himself."
His gaze slowly swept over everyone seated at the table. "Time flies," he said mildly.
"Old powers die out, new powers rise, then fall."
"Everything changes, myself included."
His fingers tapped slowly and heavily against the tabletop.
Every tap sent a tremor through their hearts.
"Over the years, the High Table has grown larger and larger. Some vacancies will be filled, and anything superfluous will be removed."
"Twelve seats. No more, no less."
Watson straightened. Today, he wore a black pinstriped suit with a red flower on his chest.
He raised both hands, then brought them down hard on the table.
Bang! The sound made their hearts jump.
"Balance," he said gravely, "is important."
"I've never considered myself the leader here." Watson raised a finger. "I'm the fulcrum at the center of the scales."
"Devouring one another is an unspoken rule of the underworld. I accept that too."
"But don't forget." He leaned against the chair back, inwardly grumbling that it was less comfortable than his office chair, while his expression remained calm. "I'm also the fulcrum that supports both black and white."
No one objected.
Because he was right.