Chapter 4 – Samuel
Four Years Later
The air in the boardroom is suffocatingly dry, thick with the scent of stale coffee and the sharp, metallic tang of rising panic.
Four years ago, I might have leaned back in my leather chair, loosened my tie, and flashed a charismatic smile to ease the tension in the room. I would have smoothed over the missing shipping containers with a smooth joke and a half-truth, playing the easygoing logistics consultant to perfection.
Today, I just watch them sweat.
“The port authority is tightening inspections on all outbound cargo,” the regional director stammers, nervously adjusting the collar of his shirt as he avoids my gaze. “We’re looking at a two-week delay on the steel shipments. If we push back—”
“We don’t push back,” I interrupt, my voice completely flat, devoid of any warmth.
“The shipment moves at midnight on Thursday as scheduled, or I find a regional director who knows how to read a tide chart and bribe a customs official properly. Do not bring me a problem without bringing me the solution, Marcus.”
A heavy, terrified silence falls over the long glass table. Marcus swallows hard, his face pale, and nods sharply. “Understood. Thursday at midnight.”
“Good. We’re done here.” I stand up, buttoning my tailored suit jacket with sharp, practiced precision.
I don’t wait for them to gather their files. I walk out of the glass-walled boardroom and into the sleek, expansive corridor of our corporate front. My right-hand man, Kaplan Dyke, falls into step beside me immediately, his heavy boots making no sound on the polished marble floor.
Before Kaplan can brief me on the next move, a woman steps out of the adjacent lounge, blocking my path.
“Samuel,” she says, a slow, practiced smile spreading across her painted lips.
I stop, my expression completely blank as I process her face.
Vanessa. A socialite I used to entertain at charity galas and high-end clubs a lifetime ago, back when I still used women and whiskey to pass the time.
She steps into my personal space, trailing a hand down the lapel of my suit, clearly expecting the charming, relaxed man she remembers.
“It’s been years,” she purrs, leaning in close enough for her heavy floral perfume to hit my senses. “I heard you were back in the city. I was hoping we could catch up. Maybe grab a drink tonight?”
Four years ago, I would have indulged her with a flirtatious rejection, stroking her ego before sending her on her way. Or maybe I’d have even taken her to bed.
“Vanessa,” I say, my voice a quiet, freezing razor blade that makes her hand stall on my chest. “Step out of my way.”
Her smile shatters instantly. She blinks, pulling her hand back as if my suit is made of live wire, genuine shock flashing in her eyes at the sheer, unyielding ice in my tone.
She takes a quick step back, pressing herself against the glass wall to let me pass.
I don’t give her a second glance as I keep walking.
Kaplan chuckles low in his throat as we step into my private office, the heavy oak doors sealing shut behind us.
“Ice cold, Boss,” Kaplan murmurs, tossing a heavy leather folder onto my desk. “You keep freezing people out like that, the board is going to think you’ve lost your legendary charm.”
“The charm died when the priorities shifted, Kaplan,” I say, walking over to the decanter on my credenza and pouring exactly two fingers of scotch. I don’t drink to enjoy it anymore; I drink because the burn grounds me.
Kaplan’s faint smile fades, his posture straightening.
The shift in the room is instantaneous, heavy with the unspoken weight of the past four years.
We don’t talk about the blood on our hands, and we sure as hell don’t talk about the empty chair at our table.
When we lost him—when a moment of distraction and a loose end cost me my closest friend—I burned the old version of myself to the fucking ground.
There are no more distractions. No more casual nights in hotel penthouses. No more women. I run this empire with absolute, ruthless efficiency, because failure is no longer an option I’m willing to survive.
“Where are we on the European expansion?” I ask, taking a sip of the scotch and turning to face him, forcing the ghosts back into the dark corners of my mind.
“That’s what’s in the folder,” Kaplan says, tapping the leather-bound file on my desk.
“The Bratva needs a clean front to move the new assets through the Mediterranean corridor. We can’t use our usual shell companies; there’s too much heat right now.
We need an external partner. Someone elite, independent, and completely unquestionable. ”
“Who did you find?” I ask, leaning against the edge of my desk.
“A high-end logistics and fashion firm out of the city,” Kaplan replies, pulling out a brief sheet.
“They handle international transport for elite global brands. Zero margin for error, heavy emphasis on discretion, and their supply lines are completely isolated from our usual watchdogs. They are the perfect Trojan horse for this operation.”
“Are they willing to play ball?”
“They don’t know it’s a ball game yet,” Kaplan says with a grim smirk. “They think it’s a massive corporate contract for specialized cargo. I set up a preliminary meeting with their CEO for tomorrow morning to finalize the operational terms.”
I set my glass down, entirely uninterested in the details of the CEO or the company. To me, they are just another pawn on the board, another tool to keep my family’s empire expanding.
“Fine,” I say, my tone entirely business. “I’ll take the meeting. Send the address to my driver, and have the NDAs ready. If they hesitate for even a second, we walk and find someone else.”
“Understood,” Kaplan says, turning toward the door.
I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, staring down at the sprawling, chaotic city below, mourning the man I once was. There will be no getting him back, since with all my power and influence, I cannot raise the dead. The only thing I must do is live with the shell I am now.