I worked my ass off at the private boarding school in Connecticut where I spent most of my youth.
The Greek accent I grew up with? Recited out of me by relentless tutors.
My rough manners? Transformed through tedious lessons and honed into a weapon sharper than any knife.
Then came NYU for business, Columbia for finance, and classes at Oxford for diplomacy.
Every degree another weapon.
Every handshake, another battle.
I wasn’t chasing prestige.
I was chasing power.
I wanted the fortune that should have been mine. The legacy that my father died chasing.
And now—now, when I open my portfolio, I see eight zeros across multiple accounts.
But money isn’t the prize.
It’s the leverage.
And I know exactly how to use it.
My empire was born in the chaos of conflict—built on aerospace, weapons tech, high-level defense systems.
Not the kind of weapons you sell to desperate militias.
The kind nations salivate over.
The kind corporations like Viper Enterprises and Sigma International Security can turn into billions overnight.
Drones that fly invisible to radar.
Exo-suits that make a man unstoppable.
Precision tools of war, built not just to destroy—but to dominate.
Power. That’s what I’m selling now.
That’s what makes men kneel.
And that’s why I’m here.
Back in America. On the East Coast.
Among the Wolves and Vipers, shaking hands with polished criminals who smile for cameras while they bleed each other dry in the dark.
To make a deal.
To expand.
And most importantly—to settle an old debt.
Because before he died, my father made me promise one thing.
“Make them pay, Atlas.”
