chaff. Madison had come to this conclusion many years ago. Sugihara’s clothes, tattoos, and jewelry were a smokescreen to cover what beneath was a pasty, frail, and often sickly man of modest stature. But what the boss lacked in physicality, he made up for in cunning and ruthlessness. Sugihara was, without a doubt, as dangerous as the Minowara had to offer, perhaps second only to herself. That said, Madison respected Sugihara and considered him a friend, a friend that she didn’t trust one iota.

       Just as Sugihara looked primed to vent his frustrations with being made to wait, another cadre of men in suits entered the restaurant. Among them, carried on long-legged strides and a barrage of commands in French, was a man who could be none other than the billionaire Luther Gueye. He appr...

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