The main dining room was filled with the cheerful sounds of clinking cutlery, conversation and laughter. The lavish private room to the back of the restaurant, in which five men and one women sat, was a stark contrast.  A palpable, nervous tension engulfed the entire group, save the single women. She felt it, certainly, but was outside it, above it. She was causing it. Which was just the way she liked it.<br/><br/>Dominique sat at the head of the table, watching the mens' hands shake as they held their cooled salad forks and listening to their apprehensive clucking about drug production, profits and recruiting.  She was enjoying their agitation, and was pleased with their reports, but she had to work to keep her boredom from showing on her face.  It was nothing she hadn't heard before. She had learned that with all their mooching, desperate need to please while trying to appear aloof and independent, and flattery, drug lords could be utterly dull.<br/><br/>She usually tried to see these lunches to their ends; it was good to have drug lords that respected and feared you, but dangerous to have those that resented you. She was in no mood, however, to put up with their stiff, greasy humour and forced compliments. She was a busy women.<br/><br/>She glanced around at the men pointedly, quickly silencing them, then stood.<br/><br/>"Well gentlemen, it has been very pleasant, but I have business to attend to. I'm sure you understand." They all nodded. Of course they understood. She smiled and stepped through the door, her suit bodyguard slipping out behind her.<br/><br/>Outside, she ducked into a black, heavily tinted car, and turned to the driver. "Home." she said.<br/><br/>The wheels squealed as he hurried to comply.