Nicholas Pov
The conference room sat on the top floor of the tower, all glass and steel — clean lines hiding dirty business. Ten people filled the table, investors and division heads, each of them too cautious to speak before I did.
"Let's make this quick," I said, settling into my chair. "Numbers first."
Silvia, head of logistics, adjusted her glasses and brought up a digital chart on the screen. "Shipments through the eastern ports are steady. The reroute through Spain cut transport time by three days. Profits are up seven percent this quarter."
I nodded once. "And security?"
Paolo wasn't there, but one of his men spoke up from the corner. "Minimal interference. A few local gangs tried to hit the docks in Marseille — we handled it."
"Handled," I repeated, glancing at him. "Or buried?"
He hesitated. "Buried."
"Good."
Silvia cleared her throat. "We're still negotiating with the new distribution line in Istanbul. They're requesting adjusted percentages."
