Chapter 9 - The Invitation
Three weeks later, the air in Manhattan had turned crisp with the arrival of autumn, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and exhaust fumes down the concrete canyons of Wall Street.
Inside the private penthouse office, Dominic Thorne stood adjusting his platinum cufflinks before the floor-to-ceiling mirror. His reflection was immaculate—every line of his tailored black suit sharp, every hair in place, the epitome of controlled power.
Marcus stepped into the office holding a heavy, cream-colored envelope embossed with gold lettering.
“Message from the municipal development committee, boss,” Marcus said, handing the envelope over. “They’re holding their annual charity gala tonight at the Plaza Hotel. Every major political player, shipping magnate, and corporate CEO in the tri-state area will be there.”
Dominic took the envelope, sliding his thumb beneath the gold seal to open it. He scanned the printed card quickly.
“And?” Dominic asked without looking up.
“And,” Marcus continued with a slight smirk, “there are whispers that Robert Croft’s associates are trying to pool what little remaining capital they have to lobby against our new port acquisition bills during the cocktail hour.”
Dominic let out a low, cold hum of amusement. He folded the card and slipped it into his breast pocket.
“Let them try,” Dominic said. “Desperation makes men sloppy.”
He walked over to his desk, picked up his heavy platinum watch, and fastened it securely around his wrist. The ticking was steady, mechanical, and absolute.
May you like
“Are we taking the convoy?” Marcus asked.
“No,” Dominic replied, grabbing his dark overcoat from the back of his chair. “Tonight, I walk in alone.”
