Chapter 1 - The Price of a Blue Blazer“Do you have a car?” Adrian asked, his voice slipping beneath the hum of the elevator cables.

Harper tossed the soiled napkin into her canvas bag. “Technically, yes. Practically, it’s a 2008 Honda Civic that sounds like a lawnmower with asthma and requires three prayers to start in the rain. Why? Are you looking to upgrade your fleet?”

Cole’s hand twitched again, a subtle, rhythmic spasm near his holster. He had spent twelve years eliminating threats to the Crowe empire, from corporate espionage to cartel hit squads. He could dismantle a sniper rifle blindfolded in the dark. Yet, standing beside a junior graphic designer eating powdered sugar at eight-fifteen in the morning, Cole felt entirely out of his depth.

The doors slid open on the fourteenth floor.

“Have a good day at logistics, Mr. Logistics,” Harper said over her shoulder, jogging toward her cubicle with her canvas bag swinging wildly.

Adrian didn’t move. The doors closed, trapping him in the mirrored silence of the private car.

“She’s a security liability,” Cole said flatly. “She doesn’t know your name, but she’s crossing lines no civilian has ever crossed and walking away. If a rival family—say, the Moretti syndicate—finds out there’s a civilian breaching your private elevator twice in two days, they’ll use her to get to you.”

“Let them try,” Adrian said softly.

He didn’t go to his office on the forty-second floor. Instead, he had Cole divert his schedule. By nine o'clock, Adrian Crowe was sitting in a dimly lit conference room on the fourteenth floor, looking through a one-way mirror into the open-plan graphic design department.

There she was.

Harper was hunched over a dual-monitor setup, furiously clicking her mouse while balancing a lukewarm cup of coffee on a stack of Pantone swatch books. A senior executive—Marcus Vance, a man Adrian personally promoted two years ago—was leaning over her desk, his face red with irritation.

“This campaign is completely flat, Lane,” Vance snapped, tapping a printed layout. “Crowe Meridian doesn’t do ‘whimsical.’ The shipping division needs austerity, power, dominance. Not cute little cartoon cargo ships.”

“They’re not cartoon cargo ships, Marcus, they’re stylized,” Harper replied without looking away from her screen. “And nobody reads our corporate brochures because they look like they were designed by an 18th-century tax auditor. Let people breathe.”

“People don’t breathe in logistics, Lane. They comply. Fix it by noon, or you won’t have to worry about the light rail schedule anymore.” Vance spun on his heel and stalked away.

Inside the observation room, Adrian’s fingers tapped once against the mahogany table.

“Cole.”

“Boss?”

“Find out what Marcus Vance’s personal overhead is. The offshore accounts, the kickbacks from the shipping pallet contracts in Sector Four.”

Cole blinked. “Marcus? He’s one of your most efficient middle managers.”

“He was,” Adrian corrected, his voice dropping an octave into the absolute coldness that preceded an execution. “Now he’s a liability to the department morale. Fire him. But do it publicly. And give his office to Harper Lane.”

May you like

@The heavy oak floorboards groaned under the boots of the approaching ma...

Alexander Reed did not breathe. For three agonizing seconds, the air ins...

🔥 BREAKING: MAFIA BOSS RUNS INTO EXPLOSIVE BALCONY TRAP TO SAVE HIS DAU...

“Her? She’s a junior designer! She doesn’t even know how to route an invoice!”

“She will,” Adrian said, standing up and adjusting his cuffs. “And if anyone asks why a twenty-seven-year-old with a broken umbrella got promoted over ten-year veterans, tell them logistics is changing its strategy.”