Scene 2: The Packages. THE BOSS BRIEFCASE It's not leather. It hasn't been leather for a hundred years. It's skin, tanned, stitched, embossed with the same gold pattern as his coat. The handle is cold, even in a room where temperature doesn't exist. There's no lock. There doesn't need to be. No one steals from The Boss, not even in the afterlife. Inside is perfect. Not a pile like The Enforcer's. Not a shrine like The Banker's. Bottom layer: Gold bars, stamped. The years he took whole blocks without firing a shot. Each bar laid North to South, like coffins. Middle layer: Jewels sorted by sin, not size. Rubies for blood debts. Emeralds for land stolen. Diamonds for the lies that stuck. All clean. All accounted for. Top layer: One single feather. Identical to the one in his hat, but white. The one the crow left on his chest the night he died. He never sold it. Never counted it. It's the only thing in the case that isn't worth anything. That's why he keeps it on top. When he opens it, the candlelight doesn't just reflect, it obeys. It bends toward the case, like it remembers who he was. He opens it first to remind the other two: This isn't treasure. This is territory. And even in death, territory still matters. The case is open. The meeting can begin tonight.