Chapter 4 - The Price of Silence
The next morning, the city smelled of rain and exhaust.
I sat at the counter of a modest diner two blocks from my rented apartment in the industrial district. In front of me was a cup of black coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. On the muted television mounted in the corner, a local financial news anchor was discussing early trading volumes.
"Sterling Crest Holdings opened down seven percent this morning amid swirling rumors of corporate restructuring and leadership instability," the anchor reported.
The diner door chimed.
I didn't need to look up to know who it was. The heavy cologne, a sickening blend of expensive oud and tobacco, announced Brandon before his designer Italian loafers even hit the linoleum floor.
He slid into the booth across from me without asking, unbuttoning his bespoke camel-hair coat. Despite his sharp clothes, his eyes were bloodshot and his hair lacked its usual razor-sharp styling.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" Brandon said, leaning forward on his elbows.
I took a slow sip of coffee. "You shouldn't double-park your Porsche outside, Brandon. The meter maids around here are notoriously aggressive."
"Cut the crap, Ethan," he hissed, dropping a thick leather checkbook onto the table between my plate and coffee mug. "Dad was up all night taping that ridiculous piece of paper together. You made a scene. You humiliated the family. You scared Margaret half to death. Is that what you wanted? Revenge?"
"I don't care about revenge," I said calmly. "I care about what belongs to my mother."
Brandon scoffed, pulling a sleek gold Montblanc pen from his pocket. "Your mother died when you were seven years old. You barely remember her. Richard built that company from a mid-sized logistics firm into a diversified empire. He gave you an allowance for years until you decided to drop out of business school and run off to Portland to be a nobody."
"He didn't give me an allowance, Brandon. He paid me hush money to keep me away from the board meetings so nobody would ask why Clara’s son wasn't working at Clara’s company."
Brandon’s jaw tightened. He opened the checkbook.
"Ten million dollars," Brandon said, clicking the pen. "Right now. Cashier's check from my personal offshore account. You sign an affidavit stating that the document you brought last night was an unverified draft, a practical joke, whatever you want to call it. You disappear back to Oregon. You never contact the press, you never contact the board, and you let us close the Vantage merger."
I looked at the blank line on the check. Ten million dollars was more money than ninety-nine percent of the people in this city would ever see in their lifetimes. To Brandon and Richard, it was chump change—a minor payoff to swat an annoying fly.
"Ten million?" I asked, tilting my head.
Brandon grinned, thinking he had won. "More than enough to buy yourself a nice little house and pretend to be an artist for the rest of your life. Take it, Ethan. Don't be an idiot."
I picked up the checkbook, held it for a second, and then dropped it directly into my bowl of hot oatmeal.
Brandon froze. His mouth fell open as warm, sticky oats coated the leather cover and seeped into the paper checks.
"You... you crazy bastard!" Brandon sputtered, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor.
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"Tell Richard I'll see him at the emergency shareholder meeting at two o'clock," I said, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin. "And tell him to bring the taped paper. He's going to need it."
***
