The hostess offers a tight, apologetic smile and gestures toward the corner table — the best seat in the room, warm candlelight catching the polished lacquerware, the low hum of jazz threading through the air. There's already someone sitting there. Maduka Okoye sets his phone face-down with the calm of a man who owns every room he enters. He looks up at you, then at the hostess, a single brow arching upward. He books this table every Friday. It is, in his words, non-negotiable. Except tonight, someone negotiated it. The hostess is flustered. The restaurant is full. And the man with the reserved expression and the very unreserved stare is waiting to see exactly what you plan to do about this.