Page 12 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

STORM

T he blue light from my laptop is burning a hole in my retinas, but I keep scrolling. Spreadsheets and projections cover every inch of my desk. None of it makes sense, yet.

I tap my pen on my yellow legal pad, looking at the notes I’ve collected over the past several hours.

Reclaim Stratos

My end goal is simple: to prevent Lakeland from becoming managing partner at Stratos.

Dad still has several months, maybe even years, until he’s set to step down…which is why naming Lakeland so early is concerning and confusing. Nonetheless, we are where we are, and I’ve gotta make a move or accept that Stratos is gone.

Which is unacceptable.

I’ve got to get rid of Lakeland, and I’d prefer to do it without bloodshed.

If possible.

I grab my phone, scrolling through my contacts for my freshman-year roommate.

Axel’s social life is ultimately what caused us to part ways.

There was a rumor going around that he was one of Bob Marley’s kids, simply because he’s got long locs and if you squint with one eye, he looks like he could probably be related to Ziggy—except with more manicured hair.

Of course, he’s not related to the Marleys.

His family is from a small island off the coast of the Carolinas, and they’ve been there for generations.

But he still let the rumor persist well past winter break.

In the end, Axel got mixed up with some weirdos—no other way to describe them—and began hosting hack-a-thons, bringing people to the dorm at all hours of the night.

No clue what he was doing with them, not that I really care, because fact is, Axel’s a genius and is willing to uncover anyone’s dirty laundry for the right price.

He’s got a complex moral compass, and I like that about him.

Long time, no text. Call me. It’s important.

Then, just to make sure he knows I’m talking about business, I Zelle him five grand.

My phone rings as soon as the Money Sent message pops up on my screen.

“Wait,” Axel says as soon as I pick up, and I know to remain silent while several clicks sound over the speaker. After several seconds, Axel says, “Okay, talk.”

With the line secure, I offer an abbreviated summary of what’s going on and where I need his help.

“Lakeland Sandoval. He’s my uncle and now the successor to Stratos Wealth Fund.”

“Your dad’s gig?” Axel releases a low whistle. Does everyone else see how fucked up this is that he passed me over?

“Yes,” I clip out. “And I need you to find out why he’s being named. Figure out all the dirt you can on him, what moves he’s making, and why the fuck my father would think that motherfucker would be the best solution to run a $600 billion hedge fund.”

The tension in my chest returns, and I rub my fist over it, putting the call on speaker to reach for the pack of Tums in my top drawer.

Twenty-three and already needing antacids due to stress.

“Mmkay,” Axel says, chewing into the line. “Got it.” He crunches on what has to be a chip. Cool Ranch Doritos, if I had to guess.

“Timeline?” I ask.

He hums. “Preliminary info is already in your high-side inbox. Gimmie seventy-two hours for the real juicy shit.”

A grin spreads across my face. This is going to work. This is so going to fucking work.

“Perfect.”

Axel hangs up the phone without another word.

The first file is a series of financial statements from Stratos’ subsidiaries. I skim through the numbers, but there’s something off about the dates. The transactions’ patterns are messy, the accounting looks rushed, and the discrepancies are subtle enough anyone but a trained eye might miss them.

I dig deeper, pulling up another file Axel sent, this one a list of recent board meetings. A few names pop up—all partners I know—but what stands out is the sudden involvement of a new figure at the most recent gathering: Benjamin Brigham.

“Where do I know that name from?” I say out loud, picking up my pen and tapping the yellow notepad. My knee jerks up and down in a fast staccato. Maybe my father mentioned him in passing, but he’s clearly not important enough to warrant me taking note.

Benjamin Brigham’s name only appears once, and outside of the meeting minutes, there’s no other discussion about the man.

But it’s an anomaly, and the meeting was just days before Dad announced Lakeland as the successor to Stratos.

My phone pings again. This time, it’s an alarm I set to make sure I’m not late for class.

It’s easy for me to hyperfocus and get lost in numbers.

That’s partially why I was running behind on the first day of classes.

I’d read a press release for a new eco-tech startup and fell down the rabbit hole with projections and the latest legislation.

Slamming my laptop closed, I stuff everything in my bag and head downstairs.

When I hit the parking garage, I’m startled when Riale materializes in front of me, his face unreadable.

“Need a ride?” he asks, motioning to his idling Suburban.

“What are you doing? If you needed to shadow me, you could have just done that.”

“Do I need an excuse to hang out with you, bruh? Woooooow,” he drawls.

“Maaaan,” I say, matching his energy. “Stop with all the bullshit.”

Riale rolls his eyes and says, “This is not calculus. Decide: Are you getting in my car or not?”

I think about it for one second more before eventually shrugging. Getting to school sooner via Riale is a better bet than fucking around in the garage.

I slide into the SUV and Riale takes a moment to adjust the temperature and radio dials.

“How’s school?” he asks, and my eyebrows shoot up. Riale isn’t a guy to hold polite conversation, so this is rare…and strange.

“Why the fuck do you care about school ?” I drawl, suspicious.

More silence falls in the car, and To Pimp a Butterfly plays low in the background.

“My bad,” I mumble.

Riale lifts his chin a fraction, the only acknowledgement I’ll get about his reaction to my outburst. Riale’s been dealing with my short temper and fuck ups for years.

He’s used to it.

“School is fine. Easy as always. It’s shit with Stratos I’m trying to work out,” I say.

“Still fucked up over the announcement?” he replies.

Despite the polite smile I try to paste on my face, my hands still clench. “It is what it is, Riale,” I offer, dropping my words so that hopefully he’ll drop the topic.

“Are you planning anything?” he asks, and my suspicions begin to rise.

“Did he send you to interrogate me?” I ask, turning to face him fully. We’re a few blocks from the Asheford campus, and it’s not beyond me to walk the rest of the way to the Econ building.

“Who?”

“My father.” Or Lakeland, the snake. “Is he afraid I’m gonna change his will and off him?”

My laugh is dark, and Riale gives me a long look when we pull up to a stoplight. I know he’s trying to see whether I’m serious or not.

“I’m not going to kill my father. Fuck, Riale.”

Is that what he thinks of me? That I’m some wild, amoral psychopath who kills just for the fuck of it?

“No one sent me, Storm,” Riale says, breaking into my mental tirade. “I’m just asking because I know how much you want Stratos to be yours.”

He shrugs and leaves his statement at that.

“I’m working on something,” I volunteer.

A muscle in my jaw twitches in time with the flicker in my eye socket.

“And how is that going?” he asks, turning right into the main entrance by the admissions hall. When he rolls to a stop, I finally answer.

“Have you ever known me to fail?”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

I open the door, climb out, and grab my bag with efficient movements. “Thanks for the ride.”

I close the door before either one of us can say more.

I’m lost in my thoughts while walking to the Econ building, so when I sense a body rushing up to me, it takes me a few seconds more than usual to react.

“Sandoval.” Kurt’s deep baritone shoots into my left ear as he bounces up to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder.

I shake it off immediately, pulling the punch to the face I want to unleash on him for daring to enter my space.

“Hey, what crawled up your ass? You’re grumpier than usual,” he asks, stepping back with his palms facing me.

“Nothing,” I snap, continuing my trek toward the lecture hall.

Kurt takes a few more steps alongside me, and I tilt my head in his direction, finally giving him my attention.

“You coming to class?” I ask.

“Old man caught wind of my ‘attendance problem.’ New professor in Econ 406. Not from around here.”

“Ah,” I reply, keeping it moving down the hall.

It’s getting crowded now. The building has five separate hallways that all meet in a central atrium. I decided to take the long way around today, hoping to clear my head.

Not possible with Kurt on my tail.

“I have to play it straight for a while,” Kurt continues, even though I didn’t ask for more clarity.

I hum, but it probably comes out more like a grunt.

“Oop! Excuse me!” I whip my head to the right at a familiar voice, finding the source of it and feeling that hit of…something when I look at her.

Shae Rivers.

Her thick, coily hair bunches high on the top of her head, and her colorful skirt and sleeveless shirt stand in direct contrast to all the unspoken uniforms most Econ and business majors wear.

From the moment I saw her sprawled on the ground outside the building, her energy drew me in. Yet, the last time I saw her, she ran away from me.

Again.

But right now, as I look at her, all I can say is I’m curious about and enamored by her. She seems so free, but the more I’ve watched her over the past few weeks, the more I can’t help but think she’s actually a lot like me.

Now, in the middle of the atrium, she’s managed to brush past another student, except her long canvas bag doesn’t make it, tangling with the other student’s rolling backpack.

As they detach themselves, I can’t help but notice how soft to the touch her bronze skin looks.

Hell, all of her looks soft.

Kurt ruins my moment of lustful thought when he opens his mouth and says, “You got a thing for Maya Angelou over there?”

Sliding my eyes to the side, I give him my attention as Shae clears the atrium, but don’t respond to his comment.

People move in all directions as the three-minute countdown to the beginning of class starts. “I bet she smokes hella weed.”

It’s almost like a reflex when I slow down abruptly and stick out my foot.

As expected, Kurt trips over my size fourteens.

“Fuck, dude!” he yells, and the sound rings into the dome covering the rotunda.

I spare him a brief glance, arching my eyebrow as I follow after Shae.

A blonde hustles over to help him off the floor. At least I got him to stop fucking following me.

I slide into the classroom and settle into my seat before the clock hits the top of the hour. True to his word, Professor Hansen closes the door and stalks to the lectern.

“Mr.Sandoval, you’re paired with Miss Rivers.” Professor Hansen’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I wouldn’t dare indicate I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.

Still, I find the back of Shae’s head just in time for her to turn around, eyeing me. She doesn’t look angry, but she doesn’t look pleased, either. Professor Hansen rattles off a few more pairings before continuing.

“Your assignment is to design a startup incubator proposal, specifically aimed at fostering economic growth in underserved communities.” Professor Hansen’s eyes scan the room, pausing just long enough on each pair to convey he’s serious.

“You will each identify one real community and outline a full business plan to support local entrepreneurs there. Think of this as a mix between a business pitch and a social impact report.”

Professor Hansen passes out a packet of papers—our assignment rubric. I take one from the stack and pass it down the row as my mind races, already considering the angles—publicity potential, investment impact, and the opportunity to hone my own approach to community-based projects.

Professor Hansen keeps going. “For your selected community, you’ll need to address the unique challenges they face; propose viable, profitable solutions; and show exactly how those solutions could be implemented with a realistic budget.

In other words, you’re designing a program that would actually attract investors. ”

Shae glances back at me, and there’s a glint of something in her eyes that could either be irritation or amusement.

The more the assignment settles in, the more I feel that energy in my body again. It crackles in my hands, my fingertips. This feeling is….

Professor Hansen goes on. “I’ll be looking for creativity, practicality, and cultural awareness—your plan should demonstrate you understand the community, not just from a business perspective but from a social and cultural one as well.

You’ll need to speak to leaders, residents, and potential partners in the area. This isn’t just a numbers exercise.”

The room falls silent. For many of my classmates, going into underserved communities means going into places they’ve never been before.

Unlike them, I’ve volunteered around Chicago since starting college. My freshman year, I took a social impact class, and community service was a major part of the grade.

So many of my peers blew the class off—fudging their numbers and bullshitting their final papers.

But I actually did the work. I worked with Wheels of Peace, supporting a financial literacy program to help clients manage their budgets.

I won’t pretend it’s enough or that the gap between what they have and my privilege isn’t the size of an ocean, but it’s something, which is more than a lot of people I know would give.

No one except Riale knows about my time there, though. Especially not my father.

“This project is worth fifty percent of your final grade. I suggest you treat it as such. Presentations will be held as part of midterms, and yes, you’ll be pitching to a panel of real investors.”

“Oh, shit,” someone whispers to my left.

Oh, shit indeed.

“I’m feeling generous today, however, so you have the rest of the class to meet with your partners and research. You have three days to turn in a preliminary proposal.”

The groans from the class are loud this time, but Professor Hansen ignores all of us in favor of packing up his leather satchel and exiting the lecture hall as if he hasn’t dropped two weeks of work in our laps for a seventy-two-hour turnaround.

“I’m so for real right now. I’m about to head to my advisor and take the withdrawal on my transcript because this is…”

I don’t turn to look at who’s speaking behind me. Instead, I gather my things and make a beeline for the girl I can’t get out of my head.

The girl who happens to be my project partner.

And maybe, just maybe, this day will turn out to be a good one after all.