*March 30, 8:07am*
The Bellingham Tower gleamed under the morning sun—clean, tall, untouchable. But inside the glass walls and marble floors? There was blood in the water.
The elevator doors slid open with a hiss. Crisp suit, Rolex shining, tie sharp as his stare—Cristanio Bellingham walked like the air owed him rent. The original architect of the empire. Founder of Bellingham Industries. Rarely seen, barely mentioned—but today, he was back.
Rey, Tony's assistant, straightened up as the legend approached.
"SirCristanio," Rey said, voice tight. "The board's waiting."
"They'll wait longer."
(Damn...He gats the boss vibe.)
Cristanio adjusted his cuffs and strolled toward the boardroom—slow, like time bowed for him.
Inside, the room was ice-cold, both in temperature and energy, but maybe bacause of the co air-cons. Twelve execs. Three regional heads. Two legal reps. And one chair that had stayed empty for a long time.
Not today.
Cristanio sat at the head. Calm. Unshaken. Untouchable.
Dent was already there, seated across from him, wearing that smug half-smile that made men dream of broken noses.
Tony slid into the seat beside his father. Tense, alert. His presence alone screamed don't play with me.
"Gentlemen," Cristanio said, voice deep and even. "Shall we begin?"
The Pitch
The screen hummed to life. Apex Jets lit up in smooth, metallic 3D—sleek, silver, lethal.
A nervous presenter stepped forward. "Apex leads in hydrogen-based propulsion. Berlin's best engineers already have Mach 2-capable prototypes with zero fossil fuels. They're inviting us to invest for global expansion."
One board member nodded. "We fund them, we get exclusive rights—production, branding, distribution. Imagine: Bellingham Apex One."
Dent leaned back, folding his arms.
"Sounds promising."
(Why wouldn't it? Another gold mine to stuff his own pockets.)
Tony scoffed. Loud enough to bounce.
"Another vanity project for the golden boys?" he muttered, eyes cutting between Cristanio and Dent. "Jets? When half the world can't afford a car?"
Dent's smile slipped. Just slightly. But everyone caught it.
"We're not in the scooter business, Tony."
Tony leaned forward. "Funny. I thought we were in the smart investment business. Not flashy, ego-driven suicide missions."
Cristanio cut in, voice like cold steel.
"You mistake vision for fantasy. You always have. That's why your divisions keep bleeding revenue."
Dent rose, slow, eyes locked on Tony. "You little punk. I was building empires while you were still wetting the bed."
Tony stood too. Calm. Deadly.
"Sit. Down. Dent"
Silence. Like someone hit mute on reality.
Cristanio didn't flinch. Just steepled his fingers and leaned forward.
"You're scared, Dent. Scared of the future. Scared that your name won't matter soon. But you are still useful to us… for now."
Dent's jaw flexed. But he sat. Seething.
Cristanio nodded. "Continue the pitch."
The presenter stumbled through the rest of it. But no one was really listening. Not after that.
"Funding round estimates project a five-year return of 230%. With our reach, we could roll out Apex Jets in over twenty countries within months. The contract also gives us exclusive rights to their advanced aerodynamics patents."
Cristanio nodded slowly. "And their AI navigation system?"
"Military-grade," the presenter said. "But they're offering to civilian-license it if we partner. The tech is next-gen, predictive piloting, self-correcting in real-time."
Tony narrowed his eyes. That last part stuck in his mind. Military-grade AI... hidden under commercial wings?
Cristanio saw it too.
"This is more than jets," he said. "It's data control. Airspace influence."
Dent leaned in, voice oily. "It's power. And whoever controls the skies... controls the map."
Tony's jaw locked.
"Or crashes with it."
Aftermath
After the meeting, the board filed out. Some silent, some buzzing. Politics and numbers in every footstep. But the hallway stayed quiet. Except for Tony and Dent.
Dent lit a cigar, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the skylights.
"Tell me something," Dent said. "How long do you think you can hold this company together? Until it collapses with your pride?"
Tony stepped close. Voice low.
"As long as it takes to keep snakes like you from slithering into the vault."
Dent chuckled. "Still trying to prove yourself to Daddy?"
Tony didn't blink. "I don't need to prove anything. Not to him. Not to you."
Dent exhaled smoke. "You're not your father."
"No," Tony said, eyes dark. "I'm better."
Dent started to turn but dropped one last line like a knife.
"Watch your back, heir. Sometimes the next blade doesn't come from enemies. It comes from family."
Tony didn't flinch. He just watched Dent walk away.
Then his phone buzzed.
Message received: GHOSTS ARE READY.
He stared at the message. Then down the hall.
"Let the games begin."
Back in his private penthouse office.
*6:12pm*
(Mr. Cristanio sure is rich.)
Cristanio stood by the window, arms crossed. He hadn't spoken to Tony since the meeting, but he watched him leave through the monitors.
"You did well, boy," he muttered. "But you're still green."
His screen flashed—encrypted call.
He answered.
A filtered voice spoke: "Sir Bellingham. The Apex data packets have been embedded. Operation Seraphim will be functional within twenty-eight days."
Cristanio nodded. "Good. Keep Dent focused on the jets. Let him think it was his win."
"Phase two?"
Cristanio's eyes narrowed. "Begin silent acquisition of Apex competitors. And prep the offshore accounts. When the tower falls, Bellingham doesn't."
The voice paused. "What about your son?"
Cristanio's gaze lingered on a family photo—Tony as a kid, smiling beside him.
"He's stronger than I ever was," Cristanio said. "But strength means nothing if you don't know the war you're in."
He ended the call. Poured a glass of whiskey. And whispered:
"Time to see who bleeds and wins first."