19. Lorenzo #2
“Nobody is coming into this house,” I say softly. “Nobody touches what belongs to me. You focus on the glass. Let me focus on the lead.”
I release her chin, my hand returning to my pocket. “Get some sleep, Professor. Tomorrow, we begin the distribution logistics.”
She doesn’t answer. She picks up her coat from the back of the chair and walks out, the doors sealing behind her.
I stay in the lab for another five minutes, the scent of her perfume lingering beneath the chemical tang of the room.
By midnight, I enter another private meeting room.
Different building.
Different city district. Much larger money.
The private lounge at the rear of the Onyx Club is dark, the walls lined with soundproofed velvet panels. A single brass lamp illuminates the low table where Vance sits, a glass of amber scotch held between his fingers.
Beside him sits Marcus Vance, his older brother and the primary distributor for the Midwest transport corridors. Marcus is broader, his hair greying at the temples, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that shows no sign of the street.
The third man rises when I enter.
Tall.
Suit on.
Watch.
And confidence. The kind that comes from moving millions without ever touching the product.
Vance smiles. “Don Lorenzo.”
I nod. “Marcus.”
His attention shifts toward the man beside him. The buyer extends a hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
I ignore the hand. His smile freezes.
Vance quickly intervenes. “This is Charles Mercer.”
The name means something.
Real estate.
Construction.
Political donations.
Legitimate money on paper. Not legitimate underneath.
Mercer recovers fast. He lowers his hand.
“Marcus says you’re changing the market.”
“I don’t care what Marcus says.”
Mercer laughs. A man used to negotiating from strength. Unfortunately for him, this isn’t his table.
We sit. Drinks arrive. Nobody touches them.
“The quality is verified,” Marcus says, leaning forward and resting his thick forearms on the table.
“Vance brought me the small crystal sample from last week. If the bulk batch matches that profile, we can double the per-kilo price at the distribution hubs in Detroit and Cleveland. The buyers are tired of the cut product coming up from the southern border.”
“The price stays where it is,” I say.
Marcus blinks, his glass stopping halfway to his mouth. “Lorenzo, we’re talking about a forty percent margin increase. Why leave that on the table?”
“Because when you raise the price, you create an incentive for competitors to offer cheaper alternatives,” I tell him, my voice flat.
“We flood the market with the highest grade at the current price point. We starve out Francesco Ricardo’s distribution networks within sixty days and others.
If they can’t match the purity and they can’t beat the price, their dealers will flip to our supply lines before the winter starts. ”
Vance looks at his brother, then back to me. “It’s a strangulation play.”
“It’s an acquisition. I don’t want their turf. I want their people to realise that working for Francesco is an expensive mistake.”
Marcus studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “And the volume? Can your source keep up with that kind of pressure?”
“The source is secure. The volume will triple by next Tuesday. Your trucks need to be ready to move the weight within two hours of arrival at the primary warehouse.”
Mercer cuts in, leaning forward to lock eyes with me. “I want exclusivity.”
“No.”
The answer lands instantly. He blinks. “You’re refusing before hearing terms.”
“I heard enough.”
“I can double your current distribution revenue.”
“No.”
“Triple.”
“No.”
Irritation finally appears beneath his posture. “Why?”
“Because dependence creates weakness.”
He studies me, trying to understand the boundary. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
Vance lifts his glass, looking entertained. “See? I told you.”
Mercer ignores him, his voice tightening. “What do you trust?”
“Leverage.”
That earns silence.
The conversation continues for another hour.
Numbers.
Territories.
Distribution.
Margins.
Threats disguised as opportunities. By the end, Mercer has what he came for, a deal, just not the deal he wanted.
Nobody gets everything from me. That’s how men become entitled, and entitled men become problems.
Marcus hesitates as we finalise the route logistics, leaning in slightly.
“There’s a rumour out of Cicero, Lorenzo.
People are saying Francesco is looking for something specific.
Not territory. A person. He’s putting a lot of money on the street for information about a woman who was supposed to have died in a shootout last month. ”
Mateo doesn’t move behind me. His breathing remains steady.
I take a sip of my water, my expression unchanged.
“Francesco is a superstitious man. He chases ghosts when he doesn’t have the stomach to face his real problems. Focus on the trucks, Marcus.
If a single kilo drops before it reaches Detroit, I won’t be looking for Francesco. I’ll be looking for you.”
Marcus nods, his throat moving as he swallows. “Understood, Don Nero.”
When the meeting finally ends, Vance walks beside me toward the elevators. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He grins.
My expression changes immediately. His grin disappears.
“There it is,” Vance mutters.
The elevator doors open. I step inside, leaving Vance on the carpet outside. Smart. Very smart.
“Careful, Marcus,” I say.
The doors begin closing. The last thing he sees is me staring back at him. Then the elevator descends, and the lights of the Onyx Club fade into the shaft.
The circle is closing.
Francesco knows she’s alive. The Vance brothers are hearing the whispers.
And all I can think about is the fact that somewhere inside my estate sits a traitor. Not outside or across the city. Not working for Francesco. Inside my house. Inside my operation. Inside the walls I built.
And when I find him?—
God help him.