Page 12 of The CEO

“I thought precision was the goal.” I accept the glass, twenty-one and already his second-in-command.

Victor laughs, settling into his leather chair. “The goal is justice. Our brand of justice.” He studies me over the rim of his glass. “Tell me, do you remember how it felt? That night with your mother’s boyfriend?”

My jaw tightens. Victor is the only person alive who knows what I did at the age of nine. The only one who saw me sitting calmly between two cooling bodies.

“I remember,” I say, the only concession I’ll give him.

“And did you feel detached then? Clinical? Or did you feel something more . . . visceral?” His eyes gleam with interest that borders on inappropriate.

I meet his gaze steadily. “I felt satisfaction.”

“Yes.” He points at me. “That’s what I’m talking about. The pure, righteous satisfaction of delivering consequences to those who deserve them.”

I take a measured sip of Scotch. “The results matter more than the emotion behind them.”

Victor sighs dramatically. “You’re still so young. So caught up in efficiency.” He leans forward. “The Shadows isn’t just an organization, Damien. It’s a calling. We don’t just eliminate problems—we balance scales that the law can’t or won’t touch.”

I’ve heard this speech before. Victor’s quasi-religious fervor about our purpose. I find it unnecessary, even as I recognize its usefulness in binding the other members to our cause.

“The council meeting tomorrow,” I say, changing the subject. “Regarding the new target, Jackson . . . I have reservations.”

Victor’s expression hardens. “Explain.”

“The evidence is circumstantial. His connection to the trafficking operation isn’t conclusively proven.”

“Sometimes we must act on incomplete information,” Victor dismisses. “My sources confirm his involvement.”

“Your sources have been wrong before.” I set my glass down carefully. “Last year. The Richardson case.”

A flash of anger crosses his face. “A rare misstep.”

“An innocent man died.”

“Collateral damage happens in war.”

“We’re not at war,” I counter. “We’re supposed to be surgical. Precise. That’s the difference between justice and mere violence.”

Victor studies me for a long moment. “You’re developing your own philosophy, I see. Interesting.” He finishes his Scotch. “The council votes tomorrow. Present your concerns then.”

The scene shifts again in my memory.

I’m twenty-five, standing in Victor’s office at VM Industries. The corporate empire serves as the perfect front for The Shadows’ operations, laundering both money and influence through legitimate channels.

“I don’t like this new recruit—Foster,” Victor says, reviewing personnel files. “Too rigid. Too moral.”

“Those are exactly the qualities we need,” I argue. “Someone who follows protocol precisely. Someone who can’t be corrupted by outside interests.”

Victor laughs. “Everyone can be corrupted, Damien. Everyone has a price.”

Not everyone,I think but don’t say.

“He’s former military intelligence,” I point out instead. “His skills fill a gap in our operational capabilities.”

“Fine,” Victor concedes. “But he’s your responsibility. If he becomes a problem, you’ll handle it personally.”

I nod, accepting the burden. Foster will prove himself valuable. I’ve already identified qualities in him that Victor, for all his insight, has missed.

Another memory surfaces.

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