The Hamsville City Council chamber was packed when Celeste Ward stepped inside at precisely 8:00 a.m. Reporters, business leaders, and municipal officials filled the rows, with local news cameras positioned along the back wall, their red lights blinking like watchful eyes.Celeste didn’t bother to hide. She walked in confidently, wearing a sharp navy suit, her jet black hair tied high. She moved with the kind of natural ease that made people instinctively get out of her way. And anyone who didn’t recognize her by name would soon learn it.She slipped into a side seat near the middle row, directly in the line of sight of Councilman Jerry Lathrop, the man Jack’s team had prepped for this precise moment.The Rhoades family’s name was already buzzing in hushed tones through the chamber. Celeste caught snippets of conversation.“…unbelievable they thought they could get away with it.”“City Hall’s moving in on their East District project, I heard.”“Reynolds cut them loose last night, smar

Dock 14 sat on the edge of Hamsville’s crumbling harbor district, a long time forgotten stretch of rusted cranes, empty cargo containers, and crooked street lights that flickered like nervous witnesses. The cold air carried the sharp scent of salt, diesel, and old betrayal.Victor Hart paced beneath the hanging floodlight outside a decaying warehouse, a cigarette smoldering in his hand, jaw tight. Every breath felt heavier now. Every step, louder.It wasn’t supposed to come to this.He was a man who built his empire from shadows, not desperate midnight meetings. But Jack Reynolds had pulled the floor out from under him faster than anyone else ever had.And Hart would be damned before he let some former street rat leave him with nothing.He glanced at his watch, 11:05 p.m.Voss was late.A beat-up black sedan pulled into view. The headlights cut through the mist and stopped a few feet away.Eli Voss stepped out, jacket collar turned up, face unreadable.“Take your sweet time,” Hart gro

The polished mahogany study of Agnes Reynolds’ private suite was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn shut against the first hints of dawn. A grandfather clock ticked steadily, marking each passing second like a countdown to something inevitable.Agnes sat in her leather wingback chair, a cut crystal glass of neat scotch untouched on the side table. Her reflection stared back at her from the window, poised, composed, but the sharp edge in her eyes betrayed the turmoil beneath.She’d watch the council scandal unfold on live feeds. Seen Victor Hart taken down at Dock 14 like a common criminal. Seen the public humiliation of the Rhoades name. She knew whose hand was behind every move.Jack Reynolds.She should’ve ended him years ago.And now he was pulling her empire out from under her, piece by piece.But Agnes Reynolds hadn’t ruled this city’s boardrooms for thirty years by rolling over.A knock at the door.“Come in,” she called.Elliott Crane entered, silver-haired, nervous, his suit

The sun was barely above the horizon when Chris Rhoades stormed into what was left of his downtown apartment, empty liquor bottles on the counter, eviction notices pinned on the wall, the stench of failure clinging to the air. His phone buzzed on the table for the fifth time that morning, but he didn’t bother looking at it.He already knew the messages:Your accounts have been frozen.Your assets have been seized.The council revoked your permits.And everywhere he turned, Jack Reynolds’s name was attached to it.He hurled a glass against the wall. It shattered, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease.He wasn’t going out like this.Chris yanked and opened a drawer and pulled out a slip of paper, a phone number scrawled in messy handwriting. It wasn’t someone Patricia knew about, It wasn’t someone Victor Hart trusted. But it was someone who hated Jack Reynolds even more than they did.He hesitated for only a second before dialing.The line rang once.Twice.Then a deep, gravelly vo