I tap the screen again.
Off-world account numbers appear.
Balances.
Transfer timestamps.
“You keep your discretionary funds in three orbital banks that operate under sovereign-era finance codes,” I continue. “Two of them flagged your last transfer as anomalous because you were dumb enough to move money during a transit blackout window.”
His mouth opens.
Closes.
“You’re not that smart,” he says, too quickly.
“No,” I agree. “But I hired people who are.”
I swipe again.
A photograph fills the screen.
Varek on a private balcony in District Six, shirt unbuttoned, a young woman in a silk robe standing behind him with her arms around his waist.
“Her name is Elyra,” I add conversationally. “She thinks you’re going to leave your wife. She’s wrong. She also thinks her apartment lease is in her own name. It isn’t. It’s in a shell company owned by one of your rivals.”
His face goes gray.
“This is extortion,” he snaps.
“No,” I reply quietly. “This is me explaining to you that you are not the apex predator in this ecosystem anymore.”
Silence drops into the booth like a guillotine blade.
“I also know,” I continue, “that two rival Nine families have already started negotiating your removal. They’re not thrilled that you’ve been pulling infrastructure plays without consensus. They think you’re about to trigger a war you can’t win.”
One of the guards swallows audibly.
Varek’s hands start shaking.
Just a little.
“You’re lying,” he says hoarsely.
I tilt my head.
“Do you want me to name them.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You’re out of time,” I tell him. “You don’t own my restaurant. You don’t own the ground under it. And you definitely don’t own me.”
“You think you can threaten the Nine,” he snarls. “You think you’re untouchable now because you’ve got a monster bodyguard hiding in the shadows?—”
Tur shifts.
Just a fraction.
One of the guards stiffens.
