He needs the firm’s safety net more than you do, Julian, my father declared across the formal dinner table, cutting my monthly commission allocation by $14,500 to pay my ex-partner Marcus’s luxur...
The sound of a heavy steel door, rarely used, clanging open from the secluded back entrance of the harbor office cut through Marcus’s frantic confession. His eyes widened in terror.
Two hulking figures, clad in dark, anonymous clothing, stepped silently into the room. They moved with an unnerving economy of motion, their faces impassive. Moretti’s enforcers. They must have tracked Marcus’s vehicle GPS to this isolated location.
“Time’s up, Kincaid,” one of them said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Marcus let out a strangled cry, backing away from me, his eyes darting wildly between the enforcers and the locked mahogany door. “No! I just need more time! He froze my assets!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Julian! Tell them!”
The enforcers ignored him. They moved with practiced efficiency, one grabbing Marcus’s arm, the other his shoulder. Marcus struggled, a pathetic, desperate thrashing.
“Julian! Help me! Please!” he shrieked, his voice filled with abject terror as they dragged him towards the back door.
It was in that precise moment, as Marcus’s desperate pleas echoed in the room, that the heavy mahogany door I had been trying to get open suddenly swung inward.
Arthur Brooks stood in the doorway, framed by the faint light from the main building. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock. He must have heard the commotion, the raised voices, the screams.
He saw Marcus, flailing in the grip of the enforcers. He saw the grim, faceless men. He saw the fear in my eyes.
“Grandfather!” I cried out, a surge of pure terror for him.
Arthur’s hand flew to his chest. His eyes glazed over, fixed on the scene unfolding before him. His breath hitched, a sharp, ragged gasp.
“Arthur!” I shouted, rushing towards him.
But it was too late. His eyes rolled back. His legs buckled beneath him. The 82-year-old firm founder, the man of principle and unwavering integrity, collapsed to the polished floor with a sickening thud.
The enforcers, unfazed by the sudden medical emergency, continued dragging Marcus out through the back. His screams faded into muffled pleas as they shoved him into an unmarked black van waiting outside. The engine roared, and the van sped off into the night, carrying Marcus to his anonymous fate, to settle a $3.2 million debt off-grid.
I knelt beside Arthur, my hands shaking as I checked for a pulse. His skin was already cool. His chest was still. The extreme shock of witnessing the underworld’s brutal collection had been too much for his frail heart. He was gone. The immediate aftermath was a deafening silence, broken only by my own ragged sobs.
My victory, hard-won and absolute, had come at an unbearable price.
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