Zero's fingers twitch on his thigh. I catch it in my peripheral vision—the involuntary flex of a man imagining closing those fingers around a throat. I press my knee against his under the table. A warning. Not yet.
"Well… Shall we discuss terms?" Talbot says, after the second glass. Pleasantly. Like we're negotiating a real estate deal.
I clear my throat. "Please."
"I'll be direct. I want the coastal shipping corridor—full access, no restrictions. Port connectivity through your Charleston and Savannah operations. And a fifteen percent revenue share on all maritime operations, paid quarterly."
Fifteen percent. The number sits in the air between us. It would gut the empire. Not kill it—Talbot is too smart for that. A dead empire generates no revenue. But it would hollow us out.
Turn us into a shell running on Kline's leash.
"That's a significant ask," I say.
"Your stepbrother is a significant asset."
Beside me, Bane's hand curls into a fist under the table. I don't look at him.
"Seven percent," I say. "Limited corridor access—northbound only, no southern ports. Eighteen-month agreement with a review clause."
Talbot smiles. "Atlas. I appreciate the counteroffer, but let's not insult each other. I'm not here for seven percent of a diminished corridor. I'm here because I have something you want very badly, and we both know it."
"And I have infrastructure you've spent years trying to build and failing. Fifteen percent of my operation is worth more than a hundred percent of yours. You know the numbers."
A flicker of something—respect, maybe, or irritation—crosses Talbot's face. The associate makes a note on his leather-bound pad.
"Twelve percent," Talbot says. "Full corridor. Twenty-four months."
"Twelve percent. Northbound corridor only. Eighteen months."
"You're negotiating like a man with options, Atlas." Talbot leans back. Swirls his wine. "I want to make sure you understand that you don't have options. You have a single, narrowing path, and I'm the one holding the door open."
The sommelier refills glasses I don't touch. Zero hasn't moved. Hasn't blinked, as far as I can tell.
"Speaking of assets," Talbot continues, his tone shifting—lighter now, conversational, the way a knife turns to catch the light. "Max's evaluation results were quite remarkable."
The associate dabs his mouth with a napkin. "His scent profile alone generated significant interest from our client base. Truly exceptional. We don't see numbers like his often."
Zero's jaw grinds. I hear it from across the table—enamel on enamel. I roll my neck.
"Several buyers have already expressed interest," Talbot says. "Serious interest. Competitive offers." He pauses. Letsthat settle. "One client in particular was quite taken with the preliminary report. He has... specific tastes." Another pause. "Prefers them broken in."
Broken in. The words detonate silently. I feel Bane go rigid beside me. Feel Zero's fury rolling off him in waves.
"Of course, we've paused the auction process pending our conversation tonight." Talbot swirls his wine. "As a courtesy."
"We appreciate the courtesy," Bane says. His voice is light, pleasant—the boardroom voice, the legitimate-world voice. But I see his hand under the table, white-knuckled, gripping the seat of his chair hard enough to dent the wood.
"I'm sure you do." Talbot's eyes linger on Bane. Then slide to Zero—still, silent, radiating violence like a reactor core. Then back to me.
"Max is our stepbrother," I say. Flat. Measured. Establishing the frame before he can. "This is a family matter. We protect our own."
Talbot studies me. Studies Zero. Studies Bane. The warm smile doesn't waver, but something behind it sharpens—a blade turning behind glass.
"Forgive me, Atlas, but this doesn't feel like a family matter." He sets down his wine. "I've negotiated family retrievals before. Concerned parents. Worried siblings. They're anxious, certainly. Emotional." His gaze moves to Zero, to the barely leashed violence pouring off him in waves. Then to Bane, whose composure is cracking at the seams. "This feels... possessive."
The word hangs.
"Of course, I'm sure it's nothing." Talbot reaches into his jacket and produces a small remote. Black, sleek, a single button. "Then this should be nothing more than an unpleasant business formality."
