Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the Board
The sun hadn't yet cleared the horizon on Wednesday morning when Victor Reyes walked into the forty-eighth-floor boardroom. He looked confident, his silk tie perfectly knotted, his leather briefcase held with the easy arrogance of a man who believed his political connections made him untouchable.
"Dominic," Victor said, sitting down at the concrete table. "The logistics managers tell me you’re threatening to shut down the western terminal. That’s forty percent of our weekly revenue. The underwriters will pull the IPO if they see that kind of structural instability."
Dominic sat at the head of the table, his hands folded over a single, unprinted sheet of white paper. Beside him, Sophia sat in her oversized chair, her purple suitcase tucked between her sneakers, her original stuffed rabbit resting on the concrete surface before her.
"The IPO is canceled, Victor," Dominic said, his voice level and entirely devoid of emotion.
Victor laughed—a short, mocking bark that died instantly against the slate walls. "You can't cancel the IPO. The board already approved the prospectus."
"The board approved a prospectus based on a solvent company," Dominic said, sliding the white sheet of paper across the concrete toward his uncle. "This is an asset forfeiture notice from the state insurance commissioner. It went into effect ten minutes ago."
Victor picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the corporate registration numbers. His face slowly turned from its usual ruddy pink to a pale, mottled gray. "This... this is a lie. You can't freeze the preferred stock blocks without a judicial order."
"I have the order, Victor," Dominic said, leaning forward, his emerald eyes locking onto his uncle’s face. "And I have the Nautilus logs. I know about the five percent kickbacks from Carlo Valetti. I know about the twenty-two container ships from the 2024 winter cycle. And I know you went to Elena Vasquez’s house while she was dying of a brain tumor to try to steal my daughter’s inheritance."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the small, rhythmic sound of Sophia swinging her legs against the bottom of her chair.
Victor’s hands began to shake against the paper. "Dominic... listen to me... we're family. Your father would have never—"
"My father died because he trusted his partners, Victor," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping into a whisper that felt like a razor blade against skin. "I don't make that mistake. You have exactly sixty seconds to sign the voluntary stock reversion form Felix is printing in the hall. If you sign, you leave this building with your pension and your house in Palm Beach. If you don't sign, Hawk will escort the federal marshal who is currently sitting in my office downstairs up to this floor."
Victor looked down the length of the concrete table. He looked at the board members, but their chairs were empty—Dominic hadn't invited them to this meeting. He looked at Sophia, who was currently watching him with that wide, steady, dark-eyed analytical stare she had inherited from her mother.
"She’s a curse, Dominic," Victor hissed, his voice cracking as he reached into his pocket for his pen. "Elena Vasquez destroyed our family four years ago, and now she’s doing it again from her grave through this brat."
Sophia looked at Victor, then reached out and picked up her stuffed rabbit, tucking it under her arm. "Mama said you're not a big man," she said softly. "She said you're just an old man who forgot to pay for his coat."
Victor signed the paper with a sudden, violent scratch of his pen, threw the document across the concrete, and stormed out of the boardroom without his briefcase, his leather shoes squeaking loudly against the slate floor.
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Dominic picked up the signed reversion form, handed it to Felix, then looked down at his daughter. "Rule number three, Sophia," he said. "When you clear the ledger, you don't leave the ink behind."
"I know," Sophia said, opening her purple suitcase to drop her yellow crayon inside. "The ledger is clean now, Dominic."
