Chapter 5 - Monday Morning at Terminal 4
The executive boardroom at Perry Logistics smelled of fresh leather, expensive cigars, and cold panic.
At precisely 9:00 A.M. on Monday, Marcus Vance sat at the head of the polished oak table, flanked by three senior board members whose expressions were carefully neutral. Marcus looked immaculate in a silver-grey tailored suit, his silver hair neatly combed, his hands resting confidently over a leather-bound presentation folder.
When the heavy oak doors opened and Leandro walked in, followed by Frank Calder and—to Marcus’s absolute shock—Neveah Brown carrying a sleek silver attaché case, the temperature in the room instantly dropped.
“Leandro,” Marcus said, standing up smoothly with a condescending smile. “I wasn’t aware we were inviting temporary administrative staff to executive board meetings now. Has HR started outsourcing note-taking?”
Leandro didn't answer. He walked straight to the head of the table, pulled out the chair directly opposite Marcus, and sat down. He placed both hands flat on the wood, his gaze locked onto his uncle with terrifying stillness.
“Sit down, Marcus,” Leandro said softly. “Let’s talk about Vanguard Holdings.”
Marcus’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second before he recovered his poise. “Vanguard is a legitimate investment vehicle addressing our liquidity shortfall. As I’ve outlined in my report—'”
“Your report is fiction,” Neveah interrupted clearly.
She didn't wait for permission. She stood up, opened her attaché case, and plugged a portable multi-port hub into the boardroom’s massive wall-mounted digital display screen.
Within seconds, the screen lit up with bright, undeniable color: a complete, node-by-node financial flowchart tracing six million dollars in diverted shipping revenue from Perry Logistics’ Lisbon customs accounts directly into offshore shell accounts controlled by Marcus Vance—and from there, into the real estate trust buying up Federal Hill.
The three board members gasped, leaning forward to stare at the illuminated data.
“This is absurd!” Marcus shouted, his face turning a mottled shade of purple as he slammed his hands on the table. “These documents are fabricated! Some disgruntled, fired waitress has no business—'”
“She isn't a waitress, Marcus,” Leandro interrupted, his voice cutting through the room like a razor blade. “She is my chief forensic auditor. And every single signature, routing number, and IP address on that screen has been cryptographically verified and backed up with certified bank subpoenas filed with the federal prosecutor’s office this morning.”
Marcus froze. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking suddenly old, frail, and cornered.
“You... you set me up,” Marcus whispered.
“You stole from my father’s docks,” Leandro stood up slowly, his tall frame towering over the table. “And you tried to steal my city. Frank—escort Mr. Vance out of my building. And make sure federal marshals are waiting in the lobby.”
Frank Calder stepped forward, his heavy hand gripping Marcus’s shoulder with bone-crushing force. Without a word of protest, Marcus was hauled out of the boardroom, the heavy oak doors closing behind him with a final, echoing thud.
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The silence in the room was absolute.
Leandro turned to the stunned board members, his expression unreadable. “The meeting is adjourned. Revise the real estate trust transfers by noon, or you’ll be joining Marcus downtown.”
