Morning light cut across the Peninsula penthouse. Rick stood at the glass with a yawn and a black t-shirt in one hand, looking down at a city that still thought it knew who owned its kitchens.
"Summit's almost here," he said to the skyline. "No tainted fish. No surprises. No second chances."
He skipped the million-dollar suits hanging in the wardrobe, pulled on jeans, and took the private elevator down. The garage was cool and empty except for the Ducati. He swung a leg over, turned the key, and the V4 woke up like it had been waiting all night.
Ten minutes of morning traffic later he rolled up to the Neptune Platinum Market. Fifty million dollars of glass, ice, and imported everything. Now legally his. Trucks backed into the bays in a constant line. Wagyu. Truffles. Tuna that cost more than cars. Staff in white coats moved like the building had a pulse.
Rick parked on the curb and walked in like he was checking a fridge.
