CHAPTER TWELVE
The conference room inside the Solvex Peak compound was dead quiet, except for the occasional low click of polished leather shoes shifting on marble. The walls were glass, the view was elite, but the air carried something heavier-success cloaked in strategy. The contract with Hayes was done. Signed, sealed. Final.
Zhang Wei reclined in his chair, lighting a cigarette with one hand while the other tapped idly against a steel briefcase. His face was expressionless, but his eyes-sharp and calculating-glinted with an emotion more complex than relief.
"So," muttered Luigi from the far end, swirling a glass of rum with calloused fingers. "He really got them."
Antonio leaned forward, his voice smooth but clipped. "He did. And not just any sponsors. Vittori Enterprises. Dante International. Marcelli Holdings. That kind of backing... no one sees that outside of war zones or throne rooms."
Luigi snorted. "Man's either brilliant or suicidal. Giving that lineup away for a hundred billion? Fool. We'll make more than that in less than a week with those names behind us."
Wei exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "He's not a fool. He's ambitious. He just doesn't know when ambition becomes overreach."
No one argued. These weren't men who talked in circles. They didn't speculate. They observed, decided, and acted. The fact that Hayes had pulled this off was a spectacle-but the implications? Far more interesting.
Antonio checked his watch. "The funds are prepped."
Luigi nodded. "Make it clean. No flags. Credit his account by midnight."
Just then, the steel doors creaked open.
The room fell completely silent.
A man walked in.
Sharp-cut suit. Immaculate shoes. No tie, no smile. Just presence.
Vincenzo LaMarco.
The name was carved into the bones of the underworld across continents. Italy's ghost. Mexico's mentor. Asia's whispered nightmare. Where he moved, borders bent.
No one stood to greet him. Respect here was silence, not performance.
LaMarco's steps were slow, every stride precise. He walked to the head of the table, placed a black cigar case down, and sat. Then, after a beat, he looked at no one in particular and said:
"Credit the boy."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Antonio reached for a device, typing in encrypted sequences. Within seconds, a transaction request was approved by multiple offshore servers. A private alert pinged Hayes's account-$100 billion, certified and transferred.
LaMarco spoke again, his voice deeper than the ocean. "Call Phil."
Luigi brows lifted slightly. He nodded toward the hallway. One of their lieutenants disappeared instantly.
LaMarco's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "We celebrate tonight."
Zhang Wei smirked. "The boy gets his money. We get the world."
Luigi raised his glass. "To foolish ambition. May it keep making us rich."
LaMarco lit his cigar. Smoke curled like a serpent above his head.
No laughter. No toasts.
Just silence.
The kind that came before something big.
Hayes' POV
The alert blinked on my screen.
$100,000,000,000.00 - credited successfully.
No confetti. No applause. Just digits. Clean, cold, absolute.
I leaned back slowly, the leather groaning under the weight of someone who'd just conquered an empire without firing a single bullet. Scotch in my hand, Los Angeles stretched out beneath me like a trophy, as if the entire city had bowed its head in recognition.
And why wouldn't it?
I didn't just win. I rewrote the rules.
Everyone said I was too young. Too reckless. Too dependent. They called me impulsive, spoiled, unprepared. They said I wouldn't last a week sitting at the same table as the Mafias-the so-called titans of the underworld. Wei with his empty Zen stares, Luigi with that ridiculous laugh, Antonio playing lapdog for power he'd never hold.
They underestimated me.
And worse, they thought I needed them. Like I was some charity project. A kid to pat on the head and throw scraps at.
Idiots.
They thought I was climbing their ladder. What they didn't realize is-while they were busy protecting their legacies, I was burning the whole building down and building a palace on the ashes.
I moved smarter. Faster. I didn't need to pretend to be loyal, or noble, or fair. I didn't care about honor. I cared about power. And I got it.
The hundred billion was just an opening statement. A whisper before the shout.
They signed that contract thinking they owned a piece of me.
But they didn't buy stock.
They bought silence.
I stood up, glass in hand, walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling window like a monarch surveying his kingdom. Lagos didn't blink. It glittered. Obedient. Breathless.
I picked up my phone again. Unlocked it.
There it was-her name.
Rose.
For a brief second, a whisper of thought crept in. Maybe I should call her. Maybe she should hear it from me. Hear that the deal went through. That the impossible just became history. That the name stamped on every page of that contract... was mine.
But then I stopped.
Why?
Why call her?
But for what?
To thank her?
She'd never understand. She did the drafts, sure. Sent the emails. Smiled for the cameras. Practiced every line like it meant something.
But none of that mattered. Not really. It was my name on the line. My face on the deal. My power that closed it.
She was a technician. I was the architect.
And now?
She's yesterday's whisper. Faded into the echo of a win too big for two.
I turned the phone face-down. Didn't even power it off. Just dismissed it like a servant who'd overstayed.
This? This was legacy.
And now that I had it all?
I didn't owe anyone a thank you.
Please.
She played her part. She did what she was supposed to. Drafted the emails. Stitched the details. Showed up early, stayed up late, wore out her voice and her dignity. And for what?
For me.
She did her job, like any other tool. And like every tool, when the job's done-you put it down. You move on.
I tossed the phone on the table, screen facedown.
She didn't matter anymore.
I matter.
I'm the name on the wire transfer. I'm the signature that made the world stand still. I'm the one they'll remember, the one they'll quote in business lectures and underworld myths. The others? Just hands in the shadows. Forgettable.
Let them whine.
Let them choke on the fact that I didn't thank anyone. That I didn't cry or post some dramatic tribute.
I don't owe the world a single explanation. Not Rose. Not the Mafias. Not anybody.
I poured another glass.
And when I raised it to the skyline, I didn't toast to love, or loyalty, or legacy.
I toasted to me.
"To the fools who paid the price," I whispered, smirking. "And to the bigger fools who thought I couldn't make them."