When I Got My Senses Back

Chapter XVII: Trouble In The Big Belmont Shipping Lines (4)

Reginald studied the situation before him. His eyes flicked down to the pen clipped to his breast pocket, its cap hanging loose like a warning. It blinked red just once. That was enough to indicate that it was on.

He smirked, straightened his spine, and stepped into the waiting room.

The man inside lit a cigar. The flame from the lighter briefly revealed a grin wrapped in smoke. He took a long drag, then exhaled like someone who had owned the room long before Reginald walked in.

“I asked to see the young master of the Belmont family,” the man said with a slow chuckle, “And here you are.”

Doug’s voice carried a hint of disappointment. Every deal he’d made in the past had been with Garrett. Garrett was the young master. Seeing someone else, Reginald, step up in his place wasn’t just unfamiliar; it made things feel... unstable.

But Doug adapted fast.

“No problem,” he muttered with a shrug, reaching into his bag. “Whether it’s you or Garrett Belmont... the job’s the same.” He handed over a heavy black duffel. “Do it the usual way. Like Garrett did. Get my boy out of Macaulay’s way again. Make sure more deals flow his direction. The reward this time?” Doug winked. “It will be even bigger.”

Reginald glanced inside the bag and narrowed his eyes. There were hard drugs inside. High-grade hard drugs worth millions.

So this was the usual way?

He didn't let the disgust show though. Instead, Reginald nodded slightly and took the bag with a calm expression. Let the bastard think he was compliant.

Doug, satisfied, leaned back and changed his tone to resemble that of a slick with warning. “Since you’ve accepted it, do your job well. Otherwise... you know what I’m capable of.”

Reginald paused. His posture shifted just slightly. That tone, that subtle threat flicked something sharp in his brain. Did this man just threaten him?

He slung the bag over his shoulder, letting his fingers subtly graze the pen in his pocket. One brush, just to be sure the recording was still live.

“Mr. Doug,” Reginald said lowering his voice level, “Your boy Watson, he doesn’t even supply us quality ships. I can keep giving him deals and hush the Macaulays, but what about us? The Belmonts? Our clients? We lose money and client's trust.”

Doug’s eyes went glassy and cold. “How’s that my business? You’re already flipping that coke and drugs for more than you’re paid. Helping Watson is helping me. He supplies me ships. When he’s in trouble, I stand for him. And so do you. That’s how this works. Your company’s already in it, boy.”

He leaned forward. His voice turned low and lethal. “What’s your name again? I want this over with. The longer this drags, the closer those drugs get to being discovered. And if they are? Your company and its reputation will be burned with mine.”

Reginald nodded slowly. “Yeah. I understand.”

And he did. The longer this web tangled, the more the Belmont name got pulled into the dirt. People will say the Belmonts ran drugs. And that they’d always been dirty. That Garrett wasn’t the only one.

He had to cut it off very cleanly.

“So,” Reginald cleared his throat, his voice deceptively calm. “The drugs you just gave... who are they for? Me, Garrett, or the Belmont Shipping Lines?”

Doug blinked, then laughed dismissively. “Of course, Garrett. Always Garrett. I don’t do business with the Belmont company.” Then he gestured at the bag in Reginald’s hand. “But this one? This one’s for you, new guy.”

He smirked like he’d just played someone and Reginald too nodded like he’d just been played.

Doug left not long after.

Reginald walked out into the hallway. His footsteps were steady, but his heart was far from it.

“Young Master Belmont, are you okay?” Noah appeared beside him, concern written all over his face.

Reginald didn’t answer right away. He still had the bag on his shoulder. The pen blinked once more. He exhaled slowly. He pulled the pen from his breast pocket, tapped the clip, and shut off the recording. His smile came slow and cold.

"I'm fine," he said. "But I'm afraid this Doug... and the Watson family company? They might not be."

Noah blinked. He was clearly lost. "Young Master Belmont, I don't get it."

Reginald patted his shoulder lightly, his smirk half-sane, half-sinister. "Oh, my dear secretary, don’t waste time trying to understand the brain of a man who’s already lost his senses once. Sometimes I don’t even understand myself."

He began walking, then paused. “By the way, did you reach out to the men and tell them to return for the meeting?”

Noah hesitated. “Young Master Belmont, are you sure about that?”

Reginald’s eyes darkened. “Yes.”

“Alright then. I’ll contact them immediately and tell them to meet very early tomorrow.” Noah nodded and hurried off.

Reginald watched him go, then looked down at the bag in his hand. He pulled out his phone and dialed Caesar, who had already left earlier for the RMG Empire.

“Caesar,” Reginald said as soon as the line picked up. “I’m on my way to you.”

“Of course, Lord Reginald. You’ll find me in the bank axis.”

Within minutes, a car Noah had arranged slid to a stop in front of him. Reginald got in without a word.

They drove into the private space known as RMG Empire, a domain that felt less like a business district and more like a corporate-owned micro-city. The place was massive, walled off and structured like its own civilization.

Built by Reginald and four others when he was just a teenager, RMG had become a conglomerate that dabbled in everything; finance, tech, real estate, pharmaceuticals, military consulting, etc.

So sprawling and mighty was its reach that they didn’t just build skyscrapers, they bought out an entire sector of a city and branded it as their own: RMG Empire!

Access was restricted by proprietary cards. The card was biometric, encrypted, and elite. No card, no entry. That’s why the wealthy rarely discussed about the RMG Empire in public: many of them didn’t even have access. Though the Empire occasionally hosted public events and handed out free entry passes, but that happened only once every four years like it was a royal mercy.

When the car rolled to a stop at the Bank Axis, one of the VIP managers was already waiting outside. He bowed sharply.

“Mr. Mogul. Welcome.”

In this place, no one dared say they didn’t know him.

His photo was renewed every year and hung across the Empire like propaganda art. Everyone here called him Mr. Mogul—a title the inner five had coined instead of saying Mr. Mayor. Caesar had made sure of that.

Reginald stepped out with calm poise. His walk was smooth and controlled. That was how he was in his teenage years. Here, he was the myth. The untouchable. The cool storm in a custom suit.

“I’m here to see Caesar,” Reginald said as he entered the bank lobby. “But first, let me see the account balance.”

“Of course, Mr. Mogul.” The manager nodded deferentially and tapped a few commands onto his tablet. Then he turned the screen toward Reginald. “Please verify using facial recognition.”

Here, the systems didn’t just recognize clients. The internal staff: security, floor managers, even janitors, were issued cards with Reginald’s face on them. When they entered restricted areas or authenticated a major transaction, they used him. His face was the key.

Reginald leaned slightly forward.

The system scanned his face.

A soft beep echoed that it was successful. Then, a projector screen to his right lit up in white-blue glow flooding the quiet space. Strings of numbers appeared like code unraveling across the wall. Account names. Holdings. Liquid assets. Stock movement.

He narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on the final figure of his wealth.

“Ninety…”