The air in the executive meeting room at the headquarters of Langston Holding Company was dense enough to slice through. It wasn’t just silent; it was a stillness that vibrated with hidden strength and bubbling hostility. The refined mahogany table, large and formidable, acted as a clear barrier between two realms. On one side was the impressive delegation from Lesley Corporation: Max, flawlessly attired in a dark, fitted suit that appeared to contour his physique, his hair neatly slicked back, radiating an almost unsettling sense of composed power. Next to him, Lady Roslyn stood, majestic and resolute, her eyes locked onto the adversary. A lineup of Lesley Corp executives, their expressions serious, surrounded them. Across the chasm of the table, the Langston team awaited, a mirror image of corporate might, albeit with a more predatory gleam in their eyes. At their head sat Victor Langston. He was a man shaped by precise edges and icy logic. His silver locks were carefully brushed b

The atmosphere in the conference room had become a palpable, oppressive burden. A Glock 47 pressed to Max’s temple, the chill of its metal a vivid reminder of the fragile boundary between corporate conflict and blatant aggression. At the expansive mahogany table, a lethal dance transpired: the shimmer of pearl-handled blades, the muted shine of black semi-automatics, all directed with icy accuracy at a sitting Langston executive.“What on earth is happening?“ Max's thoughts shouted, a desperate, fearful murmur hidden beneath the façade of his composed demeanor. Firearms. All over. This was not what he had anticipated. Not in this manner. His heart raced within his chest, a frantic rhythm threatening to expose the calm he desperately held onto. “Grandma's voice.” They resonated in his thoughts, a beacon amid the swirling turmoil: “Demonstrate strength to possess it.” He needed to convey an impression of authority, of unwavering command, even as his gut twisted with a deep-seated terror

Victor Langston’s face was a mask of barely contained fury. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. His eyes, still burning with indignation, darted from Max to the array of heavy weaponry on the Lesley side of the table, then to the terrified faces of his own executives. He was cornered, outmaneuvered, and he knew it. The checkmate was undeniable.“Fine!” Victor spat, the word ripped from his throat. He snatched the document Bucky had placed before him, his movements jerky, almost violent. He didn’t bother to read it, his eyes scanning only for the signature line. He grabbed a pen, signed with a flourish that was more a stab than a stroke, and shoved the document back across the table. “There! You have your damn shares! Now get out!”Max watched him, his expression unreadable. He noted the forced aggression, the almost theatrical display of anger. It wasn’t genuine. Not entirely. There was a deeper, colder calculation beneath the bluster, a hint of s

“Yeah, yeah! Don't worry about a thing, friend, ” Domingo said with an assurance in his voice, like he'd been prepared for it. “Our men are going to make sure that you get your merchandise out safely. ”We are going to have the finest coke, the finest marijuana, and as a special gift for you from our very esteemed organization, we’re even giving you a little freebie.At the end of the call, Domingo closed his eyes and took a moment to look back. He had been thinking about the years he spent working as a teenager at the farm, at their very humble beginnings.“Damn I’ve come a long way, ” he thought, a chilling grin on his lips. “From a small family diner, a humble beginning, to the Don of one of the city’s most powerful families, the Donxiote Family, with an entire tribe of loyal men who will obey my every command. Life’s freaking good. ”He thought of the Donxiote Diner restaurant chain, his bogus entity, with the chains of restaurants around the city, proof of his ambition.But at that

The grand gates that always seemed to occupy a simple but heavy barrier against the outside world were now the scene of elaborate floral displays and flickering fairy lights. A red carpet stretched along the long passage from the entrance up to a beautifully decorated marquee which glowed with quiet noises coming from inside. Bucky, ever the expert planner, had met the head of the orphanage, a friendly girl named Sister Agnes and then worked with such precision that it seemed like magic. But there was no way to call it La Orphanage again, even if there was the famous familiar smell of old wood and children's dreams in the air.Back at the mansion, Max was in front of a full length mirror, trying to adjust the cuffs on his hand tailor-made suit. He felt a weird combination of fear and excitement. The charity event. The dark web firm. The ballistic missile blueprints. All converging at the place he once called home.A soft rustle of fabric drew his attention. He turned.Lena.He had see