Chapter 4 - The Boardroom PredatorViktor didn't even turn around immediately. He simply sighed, picking up an apple from the newly arrived organic crate and tossing it lightly in his hand.
“Good morning to you too, Eleanor,” Viktor said smoothly.
Eleanor Vance—Viktor’s older sister, chief financial officer of Vance Global, and the ruthless architect behind every major budget cut the corporation had executed in the last five years—march-stepped across the marble floor. Her heels clicked like rifle shots against the stone.
She stopped five feet away, glaring past Viktor at the cluster of community food crates, the scattered blueprints, and Marissa standing quietly by the service station.
“Are you out of your absolute mind?” Eleanor demanded, her voice trembling with restrained rage. “I received an emergency alert at 4:00 AM from our automated forensic accounting bots indicating that the Sterling Room’s entire operational account has been locked, the general manager has been arrested for embezzlement, and you are converting our most profitable downtown Michelin-aspiring venue into a... what? A soup kitchen?”
“It’s not a soup kitchen, Eleanor,” Viktor said, taking a bite of the apple. The crisp crunch echoed in the silent room. “It’s a dignity kitchen. And a training academy.”
“It’s financial suicide!” Eleanor shrieked, finally losing her composure. She whipped out her tablet, thrusting the screen toward Viktor’s face. “Do you have any idea what the real estate value of this frontage is? Do you know how many corporate accounts host their annual galas here? We pull in four million dollars a net profit annually from this location alone! You cannot just liquidate a luxury dining asset overnight because you had a sentimental epiphany over a doggie bag!”
Marissa shrank back slightly, feeling the crushing weight of the billionaire sibling rivalry bearing down on her. She moved to step away toward the exit, but Viktor raised his left hand, signaling her to stay.
“Eleanor,” Viktor said, his voice dropping into that chilling, flat register that always signaled he was about to checkmate an opponent. “Grant Holloway was stealing four thousand dollars a week in back-alley inventory fraud while inflating our labor metrics by firing mothers for asking to take home garbage.”
“That’s an internal HR matter,” Eleanor snapped dismissively. “You fire the manager, you replace him with another company drone, you plug the leak, and you move on! You don't blow up the entire business model!”
“Grant was just a symptom,” Viktor said, stepping closer to his sister. He dropped the half-eaten apple into a composting bin. “The whole model is rotten. We’ve spent twenty years building luxury traps for people who spend more on a bottle of champagne than an average family earns in two months, while our own frontline workers have to choose between paying rent and feeding their kids.”
“That is the free market, Viktor!” Eleanor shouted, her face flushing. “People earn what they are worth!”
“Really?” Viktor turned, gesturing broadly to the glittering crystal chandeliers overhead. “Is that why the people who scrub these floors and cook those steaks can’t afford a box of cereal for their children? Is that what our grandfather built this company for?”
Eleanor froze. The mention of their grandfather—the immigrant stonemason who had started Vance Construction with a single shovel fifty years ago—seemed to hit a raw nerve. But she recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing into cold slits.
“Grandfather built this company on hard work, discipline, and profit,” Eleanor hissed. “Not charity. And if you think the board of directors is going to let you turn the Sterling Room into a socialist experiment, you’re delusional. I’ve already called an emergency quorum of the board. They are flying in from New York on the private jet right now. They will vote to strip you of your voting shares by noon.”
Viktor didn't flinch. In fact, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
“Let them fly,” Viktor said softly. “Because by the time their jet touches down at O’Hare, this restaurant won't just be a community table.”
He turned and looked directly at Marissa.
“It’s going to be legally incorporated as a worker-owned cooperative trust, backed by my personal voting block, making it completely immune to board interference.”
Eleanor stared at her brother, her mouth slightly open, realization dawning with terrifying clarity. “You... you can't do that. That’s corporate treason!”
“Check your emails, Eleanor,” Viktor whispered, pulling out his own phone. “Just sent the filing to corporate legal three minutes ago. It’s already stamped.”
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At that exact moment, Eleanor’s phone buzzed violently in her hand. She stared down at the screen, her face turning the color of ash.
Before she could speak, the front doors swung open again—and this time, three men in dark suits and expensive overcoats marched into the room, led by the corporate board’s lead attorney, smelling of stale airplane coffee and impending doom.
