Michael
Istep out of the SUV and onto the sidewalk, the city already moving around me. Traffic crawls, horns cut through the air, and people pass without looking twice. The building rises in front of me—Amato Tower.
Inside, the shift is immediate. The noise is more controlled. Phones ring, voices stay low, and heels strike the floor in a steady rhythm that never breaks.
“Good morning, Mr. Amato.”
“Morning.”
I don’t slow down. The elevator is waiting by the time I reach it.
I step inside alone and press the button for my floor.
The doors close, sealing everything out for a few seconds.
I adjust my cuffs, glance at my reflection.
Nothing out of place. There never is. The doors open, and I step into my floor.
“Morning, Mr. Amato.”
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
It follows me as I move down the hall. My office doors are already open. There are floor-to-ceiling windows with the city stretched out beneath them. I step inside, set my phone down, and shrug out of my jacket. I drape it over the back of the chair before I sit.
The tablet lights up under my hand. I pull up my calendar first, then move to the numbers. Shipping reports, distribution timelines, and contract renewals fill the screen. My phone buzzes once against the desk, but I ignore it.
I move through the first report, scanning, adjusting, and making decisions as I go. A shipment rerouted through Oakland gets flagged. I approve the adjustment and send it through. A supplier contract comes up for renewal. I cut the margin and send it back.
The phone buzzes again. This time, I glance down at it.
It’s Katie. I pick it up and see a picture.
She’s standing in front of a mirror with her head tilted slightly, one hand resting at her waist. A yellow linen top is tied at her middle, and white jeans fit her clean.
Her curls are damp, falling over her shoulder.
My jaw tightens.
Fuck.
Me: That what you’re wearing?
The reply comes quick.
Katie: Yeah. Why?
I look at the picture again, slower this time.
Me: You just walking around my house like that?
A pause. Then—
Katie: It’s clothes, Michael.
My mouth pulls.
Me: Yeah.
A beat.
Me: They’re working.
Three dots flicker.
Katie: Oh my God.
I lean back in my chair, still looking at the picture.
Me: Don’t change.
Another pause.
Katie: I wasn’t going to.
I type again.
Me: Good. I can’t wait to see you tonight.
This time the pause lingers just a little longer.
Katie: I can’t wait to see you either. :)
I set the phone down and go back to the tablet. The door opens and Marco walks in.
“Morning, Boss.”
“Talk.”
“Oakland shipment’s on track. They’re unloading by noon. Chicago distribution is running behind.”
“Fix it,” I say, not looking up.
“Already working on it.”
I nod, still scanning the numbers in front of me.
“You have an investor call in ten,” he adds.
“I’ll be there.”
He doesn’t leave.
“What?”
“We’re still looking into the other situation,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “We tore apart Donnelly’s office.”
My hand pauses against the screen for half a second.
“And?”
“Somebody got there first.”
I look up.
“What’s missing?”
“Port inspection logs. Harbor Street permits. Container review records.”
That isn’t random paperwork. Those records track which shipments come through my docks, where they unload, how long they sit in storage, and who signs off on moving them. Somebody knew exactly what to take and exactly where to find it.
“Anything else?”
Marco hesitates this time.
“One of today’s shipments got stopped before it could clear the port.”
My eyes lift back to his.
“Stopped by who?”
“Inspection team at the docks.”
That shipment should’ve come off the cargo ship, moved through processing, and gone straight to one of my warehouses without anybody touching it. That’s how things work when you own the fucking port. Containers only get stopped when somebody gives people a reason to pay attention to them.
“What shipment?” I ask.
“The west dock cargo.”
“Who knew where it was unloading?”
“You. Me. Luca. Dispatch.”
Marco pauses briefly.
“Security too.”
I lean back in the chair.
“Did they open it?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“They didn’t find anything. It was standard cargo.”
“Then why the fuck was it touched?”
Marco knows I don’t need an answer. It wasn’t stopped because of what was in the container. They stopped it because they knew it belonged to me.
Marco glances toward the door. “You want me to move the investors?”
“No.”
I button my jacket as I stand. If somebody wants to test me, they can wait until after my meeting.
The conference room is already full when I walk in. Three men are at the table. They stand when I enter.
“Mr. Amato.”
“Gentlemen.”
We take our seats, and the presentation starts immediately. There are numbers on the screen. They go through growth projections and expansion plans. They talk. I listen.
Then I cut in. “You’re overestimating your return in Q3,” I say, tapping once against the table. “That margin doesn’t hold with your current distribution model.”
One of them straightens. “We’ve accounted for—“
“No,” I interrupt. “You’ve assumed stability where there isn’t any.”
Silence. I lean back slightly, watching them.
“You want my partnership, you fix that first. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time.”
They exchange a look. The conversation shifts. It always does. By the time the meeting ends, the numbers are cleaner. The deal is closer to something I’ll actually sign. I stand, buttoning my jacket as they gather their things.
“We’ll revise and send it over this afternoon,” one of them says.
“I’ll expect it.”
They leave, but I don’t follow. I stand there for a second, looking out over the city through the glass. Everything moving. Everything constant. Everything that’s mine. And somewhere inside it, somebody thinks I won’t figure out what they’ve done.