The New Tycoon Conquers Every Business

Chapter 8: The Meeting

The notification came at 6:47 AM, as reliable as sunrise.

>>Deposit received: $19,174.80 from LIMITLESS SYSTEM.<<

>>Current balance: $19,256.27.<<

Marcus stared at the number, his heart racing. Nineteen thousand dollars. More money than his father had made in the last year of his life. Enough to change everything or lose everything, depending on how he played the next forty-eight hours.

Today's mission: spend it all again. Push toward $38K tomorrow. Stay ahead of Voss's Friday deadline while positioning for the Morrison investment and whatever game Richard Hastings was playing.

But what the hell could he spend nineteen thousand dollars on in one day?

Marcus sat up in bed, careful not to wake anyone in the quiet apartment. Robert Morrison needed $20K to save his restaurant. Marcus could provide $19K today, get the partnership moving immediately. The contract was ready. The only question was whether Robert would accept money before the paperwork was fully executed.

There was only one way to find out.

Marcus got dressed in one of his new suits, grabbed his new laptop and phone, and headed out before his family woke. The morning air was crisp, promising spring but not quite delivering. He stopped at a coffee shop—not the expensive one, but his old haunt where coffee was $2 and came in styrofoam—and called Robert Morrison.

The phone rang four times before a gravel voice answered: "It's 7 AM, kid. This better be good."

"Mr. Morrison, it's Marcus Sylvester. I have your contract ready. Can we meet this morning?"

"This morning? I'm prepping for lunch service."

"I'll come to you. And I'm bringing the investment money."

Silence. Then: "You're serious about this."

"I told you I was."

"Keisha said you were different now. Didn't believe her until yesterday." Robert's voice softened slightly. "Come by at 8. Kitchen entrance. And Marcus? Don't make me regret trusting you."

"I won't, sir."

Morrison's Soul Food looked different in the morning light—tired but honest, worn but loved. Robert met him at the back door wearing a stained apron and holding a spatula like a weapon.

"Contract first," Robert said. "I don't care how much money you're waving around. I need to see the terms."

Marcus pulled out his laptop, opened the contract, and walked Robert through every clause. The older man read slowly, his finger tracking each line, occasionally stopping to ask questions that proved he understood business better than his struggling restaurant might suggest.

"Forty percent for twenty-five thousand," Robert said finally. "I keep majority control. You get input on marketing and expansion."

"Yes, sir."

"And this clause here—about profit distribution. You take forty percent of net profits after expenses and owner salary."

"That's standard partnership structure."

Robert set down the laptop. "Son, nothing about this is standard. You're twenty-two years old with money that came from nowhere, wanting to invest in a failing soul food restaurant in a neighborhood most investors won't drive through." He crossed his arms. "Why?"

Marcus met his eyes. "Because my best friend loves you. Because this place matters to people who don't have much else. Because I'm tired of watching good things die while rich people get richer." He paused. "And because I need to prove I can build something real."

"Prove to who?"

"Everyone. Myself most of all."

Robert studied him for a long moment, then extended his hand. "You get one chance to screw me, Marcus. Only one."

They shook. Marcus pulled up his banking app and initiated a wire transfer: $19,000 to Morrison's business account.

Robert's phone buzzed. He checked it, his eyes widening. "Jesus. You actually did it."

"I told you I would."

"The contract says twenty-five thousand."

"I'll transfer the remaining six thousand by end of week. Consider this a good faith deposit."

Robert's expression shifted—suspicion giving way to something like respect. "Keisha was right. You are different." He gestured to the kitchen. "Come on. Let me show you what you just bought into."

They spent the next two hours going over the restaurant's finances. Robert kept meticulous records—every expense, every revenue stream, every debt. The picture they painted was grim but not hopeless. The food was good, customers were loyal, but the building needed repairs, equipment was failing, and the landlord was squeezing them out to make room for a chain restaurant.

"This clause in your lease," Marcus said, pointing to his laptop screen. "It gives you right of first refusal if the building goes up for sale."

"Yeah, for all the good it does. I can't afford to buy a building."

"But we can." Marcus pulled up property records. The building was owned by a small LLC, probably a landlord who owned several properties. Market value: approximately $600,000. "What if we bought the building? Eliminated the rent pressure, gave us equity, protected the restaurant long-term."

Robert laughed. "With what money? We just spent our investment on back rent."

"With my next investment." Marcus's mind was racing, the business knowledge the system had given him connecting dots faster than he could articulate. "I spend more, I make more. Give me two weeks. I'll figure it out."

"You're crazy."

"Probably. But I'm your partner now, so you're stuck with me."

Robert shook his head, but he was smiling. "Get out of here. I've got lunch service to prep for. Come back Friday—we'll finalize the remaining payment and sign everything official."

Marcus left the restaurant with his balance at $256.27 and a partnership that felt more real than anything in his life. The system chimed:

[INVESTMENT COMPLETE: MORRISON'S SOUL FOOD]

[PARTNERSHIP ESTABLISHED: 40% STAKE]

[ASSET ACQUIRED: BUSINESS EQUITY]

[REBATE CALCULATING: $19,000 × 200% = $38,000]

[DEPOSIT IN: 23:47:33]

[CURRENT TIER PROGRESS: $28,287 / $100,000]

[WARNING: MEETING WITH RICHARD HASTINGS IN 9 HOURS]

[RECOMMENDED PREPARATION: EXTENSIVE]

Marcus checked the time: 10:37 AM. He had eight hours until the meeting that might determine whether he was a genuine player or just a kid who'd gotten lucky. Eight hours to prepare for a conversation with a billionaire who might be the one who sent Voss after him.

He headed to his office at the WeWork building, nodding to the receptionist who now recognized him. The fourteenth floor was quiet—most of the startups and freelancers hadn't arrived yet. Marcus unlocked his office and sat at his desk, staring out at the Chicago skyline.

What did Richard Hastings want?

Marcus spent the next six hours researching everything he could find about Hastings Luxury Automotives. The company had started with a single dealership in 1987, expanded to twelve locations across the Midwest, then diversified into real estate development and private equity investments. Richard Hastings had a reputation for spotting potential—both in businesses and people. He'd launched several careers by taking chances on young entrepreneurs.

He also had a reputation for destroying anyone who crossed him.

At 5:30 PM, Marcus changed into his best suit, checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and practiced looking confident until he almost believed it.

The Uber dropped him at Hastings Automotive headquarters at 5:55 PM. The building was glass and steel, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The lobby alone probably cost more than Marcus's entire neighborhood.

A receptionist directed him to the top floor. The elevator ride felt like ascending to judgment.

Derek was waiting when the doors opened.

"Well, well," Derek said, his smirk firmly in place. "The delivery boy actually showed up. Brave or stupid?"

"Your father invited me. I'm just being polite."

"My father finds you amusing. Like a dog that learned to walk on its hind legs." Derek stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Whatever money you stumbled into, it won't last. And when it's gone, you'll be right back where you started—delivering Chinese food to your betters."

Marcus met his eyes. "Where's your father's office?"

Derek's jaw tightened. "End of the hall. Try not to embarrass yourself."

Marcus walked past him, refusing to give Derek the satisfaction of a reaction. The hallway was lined with photos of luxury cars and awards—a shrine to success built on steel and ego.

Richard Hastings's office occupied the corner of the building, with windows on two sides framing the city like a painting. The man himself stood by the glass, hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the billionaire patriarch.

"Marcus Sylvester," Richard said without turning. "Punctual. I appreciate that."

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hastings."

"Please, sit." Richard gestured to a chair positioned to face both him and the windows—a power play that made the visitor feel small against the backdrop of empire. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Richard poured himself scotch from a crystal decanter, then sat across from Marcus. His eyes were the same cold blue as his son's but sharper, more calculating.

"Derek tells me you've been making quite the impression lately," Richard said. "Expensive suits, bottles of champagne, sudden business ventures. For a young man who was delivering food last week, you've had quite the transformation."

"I got lucky with an investment."

"Luck." Richard smiled without warmth. "I don't believe in luck, Marcus. I believe in opportunities and the people smart enough to seize them." He sipped his scotch. "Tell me about this investment."

Marcus's pulse quickened. This was a test—every word he said would be analyzed, verified, used against him. The truth was impossible. A convincing lie was essential.

"Cryptocurrency," Marcus said. "I put everything I had into an emerging coin six months ago. It paid off last week."

"Which coin?"

"Does it matter? It's already crashed back down. I got out at the peak."

Richard studied him for a long moment. "You're lying."

Marcus's blood ran cold. "Excuse me?"

"Not about the cryptocurrency—that story's plausible enough. But you're lying about why you're here. You didn't come just because I invited you. You came because you want something from me." Richard leaned forward. "So let's skip the dance. What do you want, Marcus Sylvester?"

Marcus took a breath. "I want to know why you sent Victor Voss after me."

Richard's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe respect. "Direct. I like that." He set down his scotch. "I didn't send Voss. But I know who did."

"Who?"

"That information has a price."

"Name it."

Richard smiled—a real smile this time, predatory and pleased. "Dinner. Tomorrow night. You, me, and Derek. Prove to me you're more than a lucky kid with temporary money. Prove you're someone worth knowing. Do that, and I'll tell you everything you want to know about who's watching you and why."

"And if I can't prove it?"

"Then you'll wish you'd stayed a delivery boy."

The office door opened. Derek stood in the doorway, looking confused and angry. "Dad, what's going on?"

"Marcus and I were just finishing our conversation." Richard stood, extending his hand. "Tomorrow. Eight PM. The Metropolitan Club. Dress appropriately."

Marcus shook his hand, feeling the strength in the older man's grip. "I'll be there."

As Marcus left the office, Derek grabbed his arm. "What did he say to you?"

Marcus pulled free. "Ask him yourself."

He walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited. As the doors closed, he saw Derek arguing with his father through the office window—gestures sharp, faces animated.

Whatever game Richard Hastings was playing, Marcus was officially a piece on the board.

The question was: would he be a pawn or a player?