Chapter 12 - Shadows in the East Wing
The East Wing conservatory was a masterpiece of Victorian architecture, featuring soaring glass domes, exotic orchids imported from South America, and antique marble statues that watched over the room in stony silence. Yet, as Marco Vance, the Marseille syndicate's chief emissary, stood waiting beside the indoor fountain, the atmosphere was thick with palpable tension.
Vance was a man who wore his brutality like an expensive cologne—slicked-back dark hair, a tailored Italian suit, and a predatory smirk that had intimidated rivals across the continent for decades. But as Victor and I entered the conservatory, flanked by two towering personal guards, Vance’s smirk faltered.
"Victor. And... Sadi," Vance greeted, dipping his head with a forced veneer of respect that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. "Word on the docks is that the Castello family has been doing some spring cleaning. We came to discuss the Marseille-New York maritime pipeline. The previous arrangement gave us forty percent of the incoming container slots."
I walked slowly toward the glass table at the center of the room, my heels clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. I didn't offer him a seat. I simply stood at the head of the table, resting my hands on the polished mahogany surface while Victor stood slightly behind me, a silent, imposing shadow of absolute authority.
"The previous arrangement was negotiated by men who are currently buried beneath three feet of concrete," I stated evenly, my voice cutting through the humid air of the conservatory like a scalpel. "Under the new Castello protocol, the Marseille syndicate's share of the maritime pipeline has been reduced to fifteen percent. The remaining twenty-five has been reallocated to our Scandinavian logistics partners."
Vance’s face darkened, his composure cracking as indignity flared in his eyes. "Fifteen percent? You can't be serious, Signora Castello! Marseille provides the purest product coming out of North Africa. Without us, your distribution network in the Northeast will dry up within a month!"
I tilted my head, offering a sweet, chilling smile. "Try us, Mr. Vance."
Before Vance could respond, Victor stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on the back of an empty chair, his gray eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits. "You aren't here to negotiate, Marco. You’re here to be informed. Sadi just gave you our final offer. You can take your fifteen percent and return to France with your skin intact, or you can test our logistics network by attempting to bypass us—in which case, your body will be feeding the fish in the East River before dawn."
The absolute stillness in the room was suffocating. Vance looked from Victor’s cold, dead expression to my unblinking, analytical gaze. He realized, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that we weren't bluffing. The old underworld of chaotic turf wars was dead; we had replaced it with corporate extermination.
May you like
Swallowing hard, Vance forced his jaw to relax and nodded stiffly. "Fifteen percent... understood. We will adjust our manifests accordingly."
"Pleasure doing business with you," I said smoothly, turning my back on him without another word. "Vance, show our guests out. They have a long flight back to reality."
