Chapter 8 - A Matter of Business
Arthur Sterling was sitting behind a massive glass desk, a crystal tumbler of scotch half-raised to his lips. He was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties, impeccably tailored, with cold, calculating blue eyes that usually unnerved diplomats and politicians alike. But as his gaze locked onto me standing in his doorway, the color instantly drained from his face. The crystal tumbler slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian rug, splashing amber liquid across the floor.
"Dante..." Sterling whispered, his voice catching in his throat. He looked past me, expecting to see Victor Hale or receiving a status report that the neural uplink was still functioning. Instead, he saw a man whose eyes burned with absolute, unmitigated fury. "How... how are you here? The uplink... the signal was active just forty-eight hours ago—"
I walked slowly across the room, my footsteps sounding like heavy thunder in the quiet penthouse. I didn't say a word. I simply reached into my breast pocket, pulled out the dead, blood-stained micro-chip I had ripped from my own spine, and tossed it across the glass desk. It skidded across the smooth surface and came to a halt right against Sterling’s gold Montblanc pen.
Sterling stared down at the small metallic device, his breathing turning shallow and erratic.
"You missed a spot, Arthur," I said, my voice dropping into that chilling, gravelly register that made seasoned mobsters wet themselves. "Next time you decide to play God with someone's nervous system, make sure your surgical team uses better glue."
Sterling swallowed hard, trying desperately to regain his corporate composure. He forced a strained, nervous smile, leaning back in his leather chair. "Now, hold on, Dante. Let's not be hasty. This is just business. Acquisitions, strategic investments, tech integration... nothing personal. We can renegotiate the port logistics contracts. I can double your cut of the shipping lanes. Name your price."
I stopped right in front of his desk, leaning forward until my face was inches from his. "My price?" I murmured softly. "You spent three years turning my memories into a commodity. You watched my private life, manipulated my decisions, and tried to steal my empire from beneath me. You think that can be settled with a renegotiated contract?"
Before Sterling could stammer out another excuse, I reached across the desk, grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive bespoke suit, and hauled him clean out of his chair. His feet scrambled uselessly against the floor as I slammed him hard against the glass wall overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Sixty stories below, the tiny lights of traffic flickered like distant stars.
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"Please, Dante!" Sterling choked out, his hands clawing desperately at my wrists. "I'll give you everything! My accounts, my offshore holdings, my entire logistics network! Just don't kill me!"
"I'm not going to kill you, Arthur," I whispered into his ear, my grip tightening. "Killing you would be far too quick. I'm simply going to repossess everything you own."
