It was the sort of place he knew Marius would have frequented once upon a time, gilded but somehow still grimy, just at the edges, beneath things. His experience with places like clubs and lounges was long, long outdated, though he could recall a time where he'd been Marius' recalcitrant shadow in a club truly not unlike this one.
Cassius was led up a staircase and down a corridor by a man in sharp robes, then shown to a private room. The door opened, Cassius nodded to the attendant who let him in, and stepped through the threshold.
It was remarkable how easy it was, walking into a room where power sat.
Atticus Rivera was almost unassuming in how pleasant and youthful he was; if Cassius hadn't known who he was to begin with he might have mistaken him for a fresh-faced upstart throwing himself an exclusive birthday party in a private room.
Cassius mirrored Rivera's smile as he took his hand and shook it, decisive.
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Rivera," he told him. "No need for such formality-- please call me Cassius. I appreciate your invitation. This is precisely the place I want to be."
Rivera's loss had been a seismic one. It had shaken apart much of the scaffolding that Cassius had worked to build, quietly, in his networks, with regard to anti-supremacist sentiment. Where Cassius had teased apart some of the tightly knotted, deeply held beliefs that were practically endemic to his name, convincing some more amenable relatives to their cause, the loss had only served to galvanize other, more stubborn relatives, and it was Cassius' worry that the loss was symptom of a greater ill.
Cupping his hand over Rivera's before he released the handshake, Cassius squeezed.
"I've been following your stories closely. Your loss in the race was a loss for all of Britain."
He meant it.