Page 9 of The Beast's Broken Angel
My grandmother's pragmatism had been forged through decades navigating London's criminal aristocracy. Sentiment never clouded her calculation, a trait I'd inherited and refined. People were assets or liabilities, sometimes both simultaneously. Their weaknesses provided handholds for control, their strengths dictated their utility.
“Schedule interviews after the Vega situation stabilises,” I conceded, knowing she would persist otherwise. “Background check depths comparable to government clearance. Full surveillance before any meeting.”
Sophia nodded, satisfaction evident in the slight relaxation of her shoulders. She'd won this minor battle, as she often did through strategic persistence rather than direct confrontation. “I've arranged for one to be at Ravenswood this evening. “
I frowned at her presumption but let it pass. There were more pressing concerns than my grandmother's manipulative scheduling. “Have Viktor assign additional security to Montgomery until a replacement is confirmed. The Vegas might target our medical resources—the bullet damage to the Bentley will be noticed if their cleanup crews processed the scene, and wounded leadership is always a strategic target.”
“Already handled,” she replied, her smile acknowledging our shared strategic thinking. “And I've moved your art acquisition to the secure vault. The Caravaggio is exquisite, by the way. Its darkness suits your collection.”
With a final assessing glance at my appearance, Sophia departed, leaving behind her subtle perfume and unspokenconcerns. I studied my reflection once more—the scarred half of my face partially visible despite careful grooming, the permanent asymmetry that ensured I was never forgotten and rarely perceived accurately. The monster and the man, coexisting in uneasy balance.
It was time to meet the Vegas on the battlefield of business, where bloodshed wore tailored suits and violence was executed through calculated words rather than bullets. Both theatres required the same cold control, the same willingness to inflict necessary damage.
Harrison's officeprojected calculated power—thirty-eighth floor overlooking the Thames, original artwork strategically placed for maximum impact, subtle security measures disguised as architectural features. The glass and steel monument to financial dominance housed the legitimate face of Calloway enterprises, the buffer between criminal operations and public perception.
I studied my financial director with habitual assessment as he reviewed documents at his desk. Harrison maintained the perfect image of distinguished competence, his silver hair expertly cut, his bespoke suit announcing success without shouting it. His Windsor knot matched mine in flawless execution, his manicured nails betraying no nervous habits or manual labour.
“The Rotterdam shipment projections exceed initial estimates,” Harrison explained, sliding forward documentation with characteristic care. “We'll clear forty percent above target, primarily through the new distribution channels you established last quarter.”
I scanned the figures while monitoring Harrison'smicro-expressions. Twenty years as my father's most trusted advisor, then my grandfather's, and now mine, yet something in Harrison's deference had always triggered my instinctive suspicion—a sense of calculation behind the loyalty that never fully aligned. Perhaps because he'd pulled me from the flames that night, creating a debt I could never fully repay or escape.
“The Vega incursion affects these projections,” I noted, indicating territory maps marked with distribution networks. “After today's meeting, we may need to adjust operational parameters depending on whether this remains contained or requires expansion.”
Harrison nodded, making notes in his immaculate handwriting. “I've prepared several contingency scenarios.” He hesitated, eyes flickering to my injured shoulder despite the careful tailoring that concealed it. “Last night's incident suggests Roberto may be losing control of his organisation. His nephew Michael has been consolidating support among the younger members, advocating more aggressive expansion.”
“Internal power struggle,” I mused, considering the strategic implications. “Potentially useful if properly exploited. Roberto's rational self-interest makes him predictable. The nephew is an unknown variable.”
“Ambitious, violent, lacks strategic patience,” Harrison offered. “Military training but dishonourable discharge. Rumours of excessive force during operations. He considers his uncle's methods outdated.”
Our discussion was interrupted by Viktor's text:
Viktor
Vega arriving with six men, not agreed-upon four. Secondary security measures advised.
I exchanged a glance with Harrison, who immediately activated additional security protocols through a discreet panelconcealed within his desk. The chess match had begun with Vega's first predictable attempt at advantage.
“Have our leverage package accessible,” I instructed quietly. “And ensure Dominic remains visible during the meeting. Roberto should be reminded of consequences.”
Harrison's slight smile acknowledged the strategic play. Dominic had personally executed Roberto's cousin during our last territorial dispute, information that would keep Vega cautious despite his numerical advantage.
The conference room we entered minutes later exuded neutral professionalism—a battlefield disguised as corporate territory. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered spectacular London views while bulletproof glass ensured security. The polished table could seat twenty, though today's meeting required only eight places, strategically arranged to provide my side subtle advantages in sightlines and proximity to exits.
I took my position at the head of the table, adjusting my posture to accommodate my injury without revealing weakness. Dominic stood at my right shoulder, Viktor at my left, their presence communicating lethal capability beneath respectful silence. Harrison seated himself beside me, arranging documents with deliberate, unhurried movements.
Roberto Vega entered with practiced confidence five minutes later, his designer suit and slicked-back hair presenting the image of legitimate business. His entourage spread behind him in formation suggesting protection rather than equality. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow—my gift from our last physical altercation three years prior—twitched slightly when our eyes met.
“Calloway,” he acknowledged with a nod that attempted to convey equal status rather than the subordinate position his family actually occupied in London's hierarchy.
“Roberto,” I replied, not rising. “You requested urgency.I've accommodated despite the irregular number of associates you've brought.” My gaze swept his men, lingering on two particularly nervous-looking soldiers positioned near the rear. “Though some seem out of place in a business meeting.”
Roberto's mouth tightened as he registered my implicit recognition of the gunmen in his entourage. He took his seat without addressing the observation, his lieutenants arranging themselves with poorly concealed tension.
“Your man, Wilson violated our arrangement,” Roberto opened without preamble, gesturing sharply toward Viktor. “We found him in our territory organising distribution routes. The punishment was justified.”
I allowed the lie to hang in the air, studying the tension in Roberto's shoulders, the slight perspiration at his temple. The conference room lights caught the expensive watch on his wrist, a recent upgrade suggesting financial success or, more likely, overextension to maintain appearances. Roberto had always valued perception over substance, a weakness I'd exploited repeatedly.
“Wilson was executed for betraying Calloway interests to Vega operations,” I replied finally, my voice soft enough to force everyone to lean slightly forward to hear clearly—a subtle dominance play. “You sent two men, one of them your nephew, to kill me last night have further violated our territorial agreement.”
