Chapter 7 - The Fixer's Mistake
Arthur Vance looked like a man who spent his life in smoke-filled back rooms eating expensive steaks and trading favors behind closed doors. He wore a slightly outdated houndstooth suit, carried an alligator-skin briefcase, and walked into my private office with the swagger of someone who believed every man in New York had a price tag attached to his lapel.
He didn't wait to be invited to sit. He dropped his briefcase onto the guest armchair, unbuttoned his jacket, and flashed a practiced, greasy smile.
“Luca, my boy,” Vance began, extending a manicured hand across my desk. “It’s been too long. I hear you’ve been doing some... spring cleaning around the organization. Very impressive. Very decisive.”
I didn't take his hand. I simply leaned back in my leather chair, resting my hands neatly folded across my lap, staring at him with cold, dead eyes.
Vance’s smile faltered slightly as he dropped his hand back to his side, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“Right. Well. Straight to business, then,” Vance said, regaining his corporate poise. He pulled a thick manila folder from his briefcase and slid it across the mahogany. “With Vincent stepping down from his liaison duties with the city council, someone needs to bridge the gap on the municipal sanitation contracts for the new waterfront commercial zone. I represent a coalition of investors who are prepared to make sure your freight shipping licenses sail through the zoning board without a single bureaucratic hiccup. All we need is your signature on the expedited clearance rider, and a modest... consultancy fee routed through a shell LLC in Delaware.”
I looked down at the contract without opening it.
For twenty years, this was how my father’s world operated—greased palms, backroom whispers, political fixers shaking down honest businesses and exploiting vulnerable people to pad their own pockets. Vincent and Daniel had been part of this exact rotten machinery, using their corporate positions to prey on anyone they deemed unprotected.
I picked up my fountain pen, unscrewed the gold cap, and tapped the nib rhythmically against the wooden desk.
“Arthur,” I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, chilling register that always made experienced men swallow hard.
“Yes, Luca?” Vance leaned forward eagerly, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a payday.
“Do you know who sits in this chair before you walk into my office?”
Vance blinked, thrown off by the abrupt question. “Well... you do, of course.”
“Incorrect,” I replied smoothly. “On Tuesdays and Thursdays, a three-year-old girl named Mia sits in this chair. She colors with crayons, eats strawberries, and reminds me of what real authority actually looks like.”
Vance stared at me as if I had spoken in ancient Greek. “I... I don't follow.”
“What I mean to say, Arthur,” I said, standing up slowly to my full, imposing height, “is that the era of backroom shake-downs, political extortion, and predators operating under the cover of my corporate letterhead is dead and buried. Vincent is gone. Daniel is gone. And every fixer, bribe-artist, and scumbag who thought they could walk into my building and treat my employees like collateral damage is about to find out how quickly I sweep the floor.”
Vance’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. The corporate charm vanished instantly, replaced by a flash of arrogant indignation.
“Now hold on just a damn minute, Moretti!” Vance snapped, slamming his palm onto my desk. “You think you can just cut out the middleman and run a clean ship in this city?! You’re sitting on top of an empire built on blood and gray money! You don't get to play the righteous CEO just because you got rid of a couple of old capos! Without guys like me, the city council will bury your construction permits so deep you’ll be bankrupt by winter!”
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't yell.
I simply pressed the intercom button on my desk.
“Marcus,” I said calmly.
“Boss?” Marcus’s voice crackled instantly through the speaker.
“Escort Mr. Vance out of the building. Make sure he takes his briefcase, his Delaware shell LLC proposals, and his municipal sanitation committee fantasies with him. And inform him that if I ever see his face within three blocks of my property again, I won't just throw him out the front door—I’ll feed his alligator-skin briefcase to the river.”
“On my way,” Marcus replied crisply.
Before Vance could sputter another word of protest, the office doors swung open wide. Marcus and two tactical operators flanked the doorway, their expressions carved from granite.
Marcus stepped forward, grabbing Vance by the elbow with enough force to make the older man wince.
“Right this way, Mr. Vance,” Marcus said, hauling him bodily out of the armchair.
“This is an outrage! You’ll regret this, Moretti! You can't just shut out the council—!” Vance’s protests faded down the hallway as he was efficiently marched toward the service elevators.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut.
Silence returned to the office.
I let out a long, slow breath, walking over to the window to watch the autumn leaves drift down through the courtyard below. The city outside was vast, chaotic, and ruthless. It would always try to test the walls I was building. It would always try to slip its corrupt fingers back into my house.
May you like
But as I looked down at the courtyard and spotted Elena and little Mia walking hand-in-hand near the new water fountain—laughing as the mist caught the afternoon sun—I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
The walls were holding. And the boss was right where she belonged.
