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 dining room had gone completely silent. High-profile executives, city politicians, and wealthy socialites were all staring at table 8, their expressions ranging from shock to thinly veiled amusement. The clinking of silverware, the murmur of conversation—all vanished.
Maya stood trapped between the velvet booth and Chopper Bennett, who was leaning against the table with his arms crossed. He watched her with cold, unyielding patience, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
“Shawn,” Maya pleaded, turning to the maître d’, her voice cracking. “You know me! I’ve been coming here for four years! I spend tens of thousands of dollars here every month!”
“Which was paid for with stolen freight revenue,” Kendra Washington interjected calmly, not missing a beat. She raised her phone and took a high-resolution photo of the declined receipt sitting next to the open, half-empty Hennessy bottle. “And unfortunately for you, Shawn’s boss is a silent partner in one of the real estate shells your uncle just abandoned.”
Shawn pulled the leather check binder back, his face a mask of regret mixed with professional duty. “I’m sorry, Ms. DuBose. But if this $4,850 bill isn’t settled right now, Marcel Management will be forced to press formal charges for theft of services under Georgia commercial fraud statutes.”
Maya looked at me, then back at the now-frozen credit card. There was nowhere left to run, no one left to bluff. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
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