The heavy oak doors groaned shut, sealing the board members inside with the three apex predators. The air conditioning hummed, a low, mechanical growl that filled the silence as the city's wealthiest stakeholders took their seats. They were vultures in silk ties, waiting to see which Wright brother would bleed out first.
Drake sat at the center, his face a mask of cold professionalism. But beneath the table, his hand was clamped tight on his knee, his thumb digging into the fabric of his trousers.
Alisha saw it. She was standing just behind him, ostensibly to take minutes, but her eyes were scanning the room like a sniper. She saw Silas across the table—leaning back, oozing an arrogant, oily charm as he whispered to the chairman. Silas wasn't just here to take the company; he was here to play with his food.
"Shall we begin?" Silas asked, his voice smooth as glass. "I believe the first item on the agenda is the vote of no confidence regarding my... troubled younger brother."
Drake's voice was like grinding stones. "The first item is the audit of your European holdings, Silas. The ones that don't exist."
Silas chuckled, reaching down to adjust his sock, but his eyes never left Drake's. "You always were so obsessed with the fine print, Drake. It's why you were so easy to break. You look for logic in a world that only respects force."
Alisha decided the "vultures" had heard enough. She moved.
With practiced grace, she circled the table to deliver "supplemental documents" to the board. As she passed Silas, her hip brushed his shoulder—a calculated move that felt accidental but was sharp enough to make him blink.
She leaned down to place a folder in front of him.
"Careful, Mr. Wright," she whispered, her voice a low, lethal purr only he could hear. "The table is quite slippery today."
As she stood back up, Silas felt something cold and incredibly sharp press against his thigh, hidden entirely by the deep overhang of the mahogany table. It was the tip of Alisha's favorite blade, held firmly by her hand as she stood perfectly still, looking at the chairman with a professional smile.
Silas froze. His arrogance didn't vanish, but it stiffened into a brittle tension. If he moved his leg an inch to the left, the steel would bite deep.
Drake saw the shift in his brother's posture. He didn't know exactly what Alisha was doing, but he knew her. He knew that look in her eyes—the one that said she had already decided where the body would be buried.
Drake leaned forward, seizing the moment. "As you can see on page twelve, the discrepancies in the Silas Wright Foundation suggest not just mismanagement, but active embezzlement."
Silas tried to speak, but Alisha applied a microscopic amount of pressure. He felt the point of the knife snag the expensive wool of his suit pants. His breath hitched.
"Mr. Silas Wright?" the chairman asked, looking over his spectacles. "Do you have a rebuttal?"
Silas's hands were gripped so tight on the table's edge that his rings were denting the wood. He looked at Alisha. She gave him a look of pure, unadulterated boredom, as if holding a man's femoralartery hostage was just another part of her job description.
"I..." Silas began, his voice straining. "I believe my associate has the files to clarify this. But for now... let the audit proceed."
Drake's eyes widened slightly. He had never seen Silas concede a point so quickly. He looked at Alisha. She winked—a quick, dark flash of mischief that sent a jolt of heat through Drake's chest that had nothing to do with revenge and everything to do with the woman standing in the line of fire for him.