Page 18 of The Devil of Downtown

Not openly. Not for long.

But enough to make my shoulders pull tight before his attention turns back to the board.

“And some of your largest shareholders,” he continues, “have already indicated a willingness to sell. Conversations have taken place. When they align with me—and they will—you’ll be left explaining to the market why you failed to act.”

The shift is immediate. The directors exchange uneasy glances, the fight draining from their faces.

Dane leans forward, palms braced on the table, the movement controlled but coiled with power. “So you have a choice. Partner with me now, preserve your dignity, and share in the upside. Or you can resist and be forced to explain to your shareholders why you ignored the inevitable.”

Silence descends. The kind that presses down on your ribs.

Finally, Stan Bexley clears his throat, voice hoarse. “Perhaps we should discuss terms over lunch.”

And just like that, Dane has them.

The board breaks apart with the reluctant scrape of chairs and strained murmurs; men gathering folders and phones, already recalculating loyalties. A few of them look like they’ve just watched their house burn down while being politely offered the insurance payout.

Dane doesn’t move. He remains standing at the head of the table, composed, assured, already victorious.

Stan Bexley rises and extends a hand. “Mr. Black.”

Dane takes it, his grip firm, his gaze unwavering.

“We’ll have my legal team forward preliminary terms after lunch. I don’t like surprises, Stan — and I don’t think you do either.”

Stan gives a tight smile and closes his folder with a decisive snap.

“Well,” he says, pushing back from the table, already smiling like the worst is behind him, “we should eat. No one makes good decisions on an empty stomach.”

One director chuckles—the ruddy-cheeked man beside Stan is already on his feet, as if lunch is the most pressing item on the agenda.

“There’s a place across the road,” Stan continues. “Top floor with a private dining suite.”

Dominic Bexley pauses beside me as we stand.

“Well,” he murmurs, glancing toward his father leading Dane away, “that was... bracing.”

“I think that’s the polite word for it,” I say.

He leans in, lowering his voice. “I’ve been warning them for months. But apparently it takes Dane Black to make people finally pay attention.”

“He does have a talent for forcing clarity.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Dominic drawls. “Does he do weddings as well as funerals?”

I bite back a laugh. “I doubt it. The long-term risk is too uncertain.”

His brows lift. “I can imagine.”

We move out together, the board spilling onto the sidewalk like a school field trip in expensive shoes. Dominic drifts naturally to my side, matching my pace as if it never occurred to him to do otherwise.

Behind us, the ruddy-cheeked director is already talking, his voice pitched at full volume.

“...and I told them, if you want loyalty, you don’t squeeze people until they squeal like a piggy—”

He laughs at his own line. No one joins in.

Dominic glances back and leans closer.