Chapter 8 - the silent machinery
Across the city, in a modest brick rowhouse in a quiet neighborhood, Vincent sat at a small wooden kitchen table. The house was plain, clean, and smelled of black coffee and old leather. There were no chandeliers here. No emeralds.
He was drinking espresso from a small white cup, reading the morning newspaper. The front page featured a blurry photo of him at the gala. He didn't even blink.
The front door opened quietly. A younger man, maybe forty, wearing a dark jacket and jeans, stepped inside. He had the same rugged, serious demeanor as Vincent.
"Boss," the younger man said, standing respectfully near the doorway.
"I'm retired, Michael," Vincent said without looking up from his paper.
"The whole city is talking, Uncle Vince. The Harrington woman hired private security. Ex-military. They're crawling all over the Foundation building. She’s locking down the servers, trying to find a way to legally freeze you out."
Vincent slowly turned the page of his newspaper. "Her father was a thief," he said softly. "But he was a smart thief. He knew how to hide the money I gave him to wash. He knew how to build the charity so it looked legitimate. His daughter... she's just a spoiled child playing dress-up with my wallet."
"Do you want me to handle the security team?" Michael asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"No violence," Vincent said, taking a sip of his coffee. "We aren't those people anymore. We are legitimate businessmen. Let her lock the doors. Let her hire the guards."
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Vincent finally looked up, his dark eyes catching the morning light. "She thinks power is in a diamond necklace or a front-row seat. Power is in the foundation of the house. By noon today, I want her credit cards declined. I want her mortgage called in by the bank. I want her private driver reassigned. Cut the strings, Michael. Let gravity do the work."
Michael nodded slowly, a faint smile touching his lips. "Yes, sir."
