The conference room buzzed with tension, the air thick with coffee and cigarette smoke.
Vincent sat at the head of the mahogany table, Moretti's folded letter tucked inside his jacket. Caster, the gray-haired lawyer, shuffled papers, his skepticism dulled by the signed transfer.
Isabella Rossi sat to Vincent's right, her laptop open as she scanned the managers, her pen flicking across a notepad. The twelve managers filled the seats, some in tailored blazers, others with tattoos creeping above their collars, all watching Vincent closely.
Vincent's senses, sharpened by the VR experience the system provided, now caught every detail—from the bead of sweat on a manager's brow to a too-steady stare or a fidgeting hand.
Carter cleared his throat and stood. "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Vincent has assumed control of Moretti's operations, as confirmed by his signed directive. We're here to formalize the transition—asset transfers, operational reports, loyalty oaths. Any questions?"
A stocky man in his late forties, with a casino logo on his tie, spoke up. "I'm Tony Gallo, handling downtown casinos. Moretti kept things locked down. You're new. Why should we bet on you?"
Murmurs rippled through the room. Vincent met Gallo's stare, his voice steady. "Moretti's dead because he got sloppy. I'm not him. You'll trust me because I'll make you richer—or you'll be out, and someone else will take your cut. Your choice."
Gallo's jaw tightened, but he leaned back, nodding slightly.
Isabella paused on her keyboard, glancing at Vincent as if marking Gallo's reaction. He caught her glance—she'd flagged him as trouble.
A woman in her thirties, dressed in a red blazer, raised a hand. "I am Elena Cruz, I'm handling nightclubs. The cops are watching our accounts. Moretti had a contact in the precinct to keep them off us. You got that pull?"
Vincent didn't have a cop in his pocket yet, but he could play the game. He would bluff—just as Li Wei had when he deceived Huang's supplier to secure Mei's medicine.
"I'll handle the cops," he said firmly. "You keep the clubs clean. No slip-ups."
Elena's eyes lingered, skepticism flickering in her gaze, before she finally nodded.
The lawyers slid contracts across the table, and the meeting settled into a tense rhythm—casino revenues, club profits, shipping schedules, real estate deals—while Vincent listened. Isabella's pen scratched notes, and Marco's gaze swept the room for signs of trouble.
Navarro, a wiry man in his fifties who managed the docks, spoke next. "Shipping's steady. Imports from Asia, exports to Europe, no issues."
His eyes shifted slightly.
Vincent leaned forward, catching the lie.
"No issues?" Vincent's voice was quiet. "Not even the theft last week? Crates missing from your dock?"
Navarro's face twitched, sweat forming at his temple. "Minor issue, handled," he muttered.
"Handle it better," Vincent said, letting the warning linger. The other managers shifted, some hiding smirks, others tensing.
Vincent felt the pulse of the room—fear, respect, calculation. He was no Moretti, but he was learning fast.
***
By noon, the air felt heavy, the table littered with coffee cups and ashtrays. Vincent called for a break, stepping onto the mansion's balcony.
The skyline stood sharp against the sky, a stark contrast to Chang'an's wooden rooftops. Isabella followed, her heels clicking as she stopped beside him.
"Gallo's hiding losses," she said in a low voice. "His casinos are bleeding—bad bets, skimming, maybe both. Elena is solid but testing you. Navarro is scared; the theft wasn't minor, and he's covering for someone."
Vincent lit a cigarette. "They're testing me," he said, exhaling smoke. "I'll know who's loyal by tonight."
Isabella's lips curved slightly. "You're not what Moretti was. He ruled with fear. You're... I guess you will be different."
She turned back to the room, leaving Vincent to stare at the city far below.
Marco approached, tablet in hand. "Sir, the casino manages, led by Gallo, want a private meeting tonight. They're pushing for a bigger share of the profits. The lawyers also found a locked account—Moretti's personal fund, fifty million. Needs your biometrics to access."
Vincent nodded, stubbing out his cigarette. The letter signed by Moretti would secure his throne—but keeping it meant playing smarter than everyone around him.
***
Back in the conference room, the managers reconvened, the tension thick in the air—heavier now, pressing against every unspoken word.
Carter outlined the next steps—signing contracts, swearing loyalty, discussing operational issues.
A younger manager, Sofia Vega, who ran the restaurant fronts, spoke up. "My restaurants are clean, but the suppliers are hiking prices. Moretti leaned on them. Can you?"
Vincent noted her confidence, her dark eyes assessing him. "I'll deal with the suppliers," he said. "You keep the books spotless."
Sofia nodded, a flicker of respect crossing her face.
Isabella's pen moved, recording the exchange. Around the table, other managers watched—some scribbling notes, others murmuring behind steepled fingers.
Vincent could feel the shift. His authority was growing, but it wasn't solid yet.
Carter slid the biometric account forward. "This fund is tied to Moretti's personal dealings—offshore, untraceable. We need your thumbprint and retina scan."
Vincent approached the scanner, tense. This was the moment when the identity Fernando had planted would be tested.
He was no longer Vincent Rothvale; he had a new identity—Vincent Mercer. 'Better hope Fernando's work holds up,' he thought.
He pressed his thumb to the pad and met the lens. The device beeped, a green light flashing.
"Access granted," Carter said with relief. "The funds are yours."
A murmur ran through the room—some impressed, others wary. Vincent returned to his seat, catching Isabella's subtle nod.
The meeting ended with signatures and oaths, each manager pledging loyalty—or pretending to.
Vincent stood. "Moretti is gone. This city is mine now. Work with me, you profit. Cross me, you're out. We meet again tomorrow."
As the managers left, Marco stepped closer, whispering, "Security's tight, but Gallo's men are lingering outside. Might be trouble."
"Keep them in sight," he told Marco. "Let Gallo make his move."