The black SUV pulled away from the Crestwood side street, windows tinted, the city lights casting fleeting reflections across the roof as it headed toward the heart of the underworld.
Inside, the air was tense but focused.
Ryan Sinclair sat quietly, gaze fixed on the night skyline ahead. Marcus drove with stoic precision, while John, seated beside Ryan in the back, couldn't hold his tongue any longer.
"Young Master…" John finally said, leaning forward slightly, voice low. "Back there… with Carter. That wasn't just instinct. That was training. Where'd you learn to move like that?"
Ryan didn't look away from the window.
"It's a family secret," he said flatly. "Every Sinclair heir begins training at six. Combat. Strategy. Languages. Loyalty. We don't just inherit the business. We're built for it."
John blinked, processing the weight of those words.
"At six?"
Ryan nodded. "At ten, I attended my first negotiation disguised as a server. At twelve, I sat in on a black-market arms arbitration beside my father. By fourteen, I had access to every legal and underground Sinclair contract. That kick earlier?" He looked over at John. "That's just lesson one."
John gave a low whistle, half in awe. "Damn… And I thought I was the dangerous one."
Marcus cleared his throat. "Young Master, about the earlier incident — the Rose estate may not take it lightly."
Ryan's expression sharpened. "Exactly why I want you to report it directly to Magnus Rose."
"You wish to be the one to initiate talks?"
"No," Ryan said. "I want to be the one who shows respect without weakness. If we let this go silent, they'll interpret it as submission — or worse, guilt. I want Magnus to know this wasn't aggression... it was protocol. And I want him to know I'm aware of how deep our ties go."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Understood. I'll handle the visit tonight."
The car shifted lanes as the skyline gave way to the dimmer outskirts of the city — a quieter district known only to those who operated in the space between legal and illegal.
They were approaching the Sinclair's night hideout — a concealed warehouse compound disguised as a logistics depot, nestled behind abandoned industrial buildings. But tonight's agenda wasn't about weapons or surveillance drops. It was about pizza.
More specifically, Tony's Pizza — a local joint that Ryan had taken a liking to since childhood. And now, after learning of competing interests trying to push it out, Ryan saw more than nostalgia. He saw potential.
The car pulled in through a side gate. Spotlights blinked once, then off — a signal of clearance. The warehouse doors opened slowly, revealing a converted interior: part surveillance hub, part lounge, part operations office.
As Ryan stepped out of the SUV, John followed closely behind, adjusting his jacket.
"I still don't get it," John said, glancing around. "Why are we helping this pizza guy? Feels small-time."
Ryan smirked. "Because small-time gets overlooked. Small-time means quiet money. And more importantly—Tony's loyal. His shop's been neutral ground for years. If we help him expand, he becomes our front. Quiet, clean, and local. A perfect place to move resources, share messages, and keep our presence under the radar."
John nodded, impressed. "You're playing chess while everyone else is flipping the board."
Marcus handed Ryan a file as they entered the briefing room.
"We've drawn up the expansion proposal," Marcus said. "Three more branches. One uptown, one by the harbor, one across the East Line district."
"Good," Ryan replied, flipping through it. "Tony's place becomes a chain. We fund the logistics, security, and marketing. He handles the brand, the dough, and the ovens."
He paused, then looked at Marcus.
"Set up a meeting with him. Tonight."
Marcus bowed his head. "He's already on his way."
Ryan's eyes flicked to a nearby monitor showing security cam footage of a familiar beat-up van approaching the gate.
"Excellent timing."
Ryan adjusted his cufflinks, his expression calm but calculating.
"Time to turn a simple pizzeria into an empire."