My business partner Maya ordered $4,850 worth of vintage cognac and Wagyu steaks at an exclusive Buckhead restaurant, fully expecting me to settle the syndicate front's tab like I always did.
The heavy glass doors of Marcel swung open with a soft sigh. Chopper Bennett walked into the dining room, dressed in a sharp, black leather trench coat that seemed to absorb the light around him. He didn’t look like the street thugs Maya usually hired; he moved with the quiet, terrifying calm of a man who owned half the illegal gambling dens in Zone 4.
Shawn, the maître d’, tried to step in front of him, his hands raised in a placating gesture.
“Mr. Bennett, sir,” Shawn began, his voice tight with nervousness.
But Chopper simply placed a heavy hand on Shawn’s shoulder and pushed him aside, a silent, authoritative gesture. He walked straight to our table, his gaze fixed on Maya.
“Maya,” Chopper said, his voice deep and raspy, carrying just enough to cut through the suddenly tense silence in the room. “Your uncle told me I’d find you here. He said you had my $300,000.”
Maya’s eyes were wide, darting from Chopper to me. Her carefully constructed facade of control was crumbling fast.
She pointed an unsteady finger at me, a desperate attempt to deflect. “He has the company card! Darius is the managing partner! Talk to him!”
Chopper looked down at me, his gaze unblinking. Then he looked at the paper on the table, the partnership agreement.
“Darius sent me the original partnership agreement, Maya,” Chopper said, turning his attention back to her. “Clause 14B. Your uncle Marcus verified it twenty minutes ago when I called him. As of midnight, Apex Logistics isn’t responsible for your debts. You are. Personally.”
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