Page 5 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

They say the mark of power is silence. I disagree.

The true mark of power is how long a room will hold its breath while you decide whether to speak.

This one’s been silent for twenty-eight seconds.

Ten men. Two women. One chrome conference table long enough to host a ceasefire, polished glass, cut-crystal water, and half-empty espresso cups shaking slightly when elbows rest too hard.

I stand at the head. Not because I need to, but because they need me to.

Behind me, the floor-to-ceiling windows frame a city that crawls beneath itself. Manhattan in the sunlight: all teeth and money, steel and myth. Below, the cranes rise like slow-moving kings. My cranes. My skyline.

This board belongs to the Danemont Foundation, a philanthropic venture in name, a strategic lever in practice. It’s a tax shield and garners political favors. The performance of benevolence wrapped around surgical ambition.

“We’ll announce the Harbor District Redevelopment Initiative at quarter’s end,” I say. “Low-income housing. Youth tech access. Renewable smart grid pilot. All the things that look good on a banner.”

I watch their eyes. Several nod. One clears his throat. Another person who’s the CFO of a global supply chain firm scribbles something on a legal pad like he still believes this is about housing.

“It’s not about the units,” I continue. “It’s about what lives beneath them.”

The room stills again. Even the espresso machine in the adjacent lounge seems to hush.

“Our development partners, Darmith Engineering, Evers he voted against my solar project last quarter, thinking I’d forget.

He’s sweating in a navy suit two sizes too sharp for his confidence.

“Lucian,” he starts, offering a handshake like a lifeline.

I don’t take it.

“Councilman,” I say, stepping closer. “You have something of mine.”

He shifts. “If this is about the zoning vote, I—”

“No,” I interrupt. “This is about the six-minute video recorded at The Rowe Hotel. July 2019. Room 812. Audio could use enhancement, but the visuals are…remarkably clear.”

His face goes gray. “You—no one’s supposed to have that—”

“I do,” I say simply. “And I don’t need it. Unless you forget how you voted.”

The silence stretches. Then he nods. It’s the kind of nod that seals a man’s conscience into a vault.

“Have a good afternoon, Desmond.”

He walks away with the gait of someone whose soul has been leased.

Back in the car, Dorian speaks again.

“Councilwoman Li confirmed attendance for the gala pitch next week. And the junior associate from Finch’s firm, Richard Lyle, is joining the Harbor bid prep committee quietly.”

I smile enough to confirm what I already knew. The net isn’t just tightening. It’s welcoming.

“Schedule a meeting,” I murmur. “Put them in the room. Make it look accidental.”

Dorian hesitates. “Do you want her briefed?”

I look out the window. Traffic glints like a bloodstream. Somewhere out there, she’s walking, thinking she’s in control.

“No,” I say. “Let them think they’re circling me.”

I glance down at my watch. It’s a Swiss custom one, a gift I never asked for.

I tap the bezel twice, and Vera Calloway’s live feed opens on my phone.

She’s crossing a plaza downtown. Coffee in hand. Mouth set.

I watch her walk for seven silent seconds.

Then I look away.

“I’ll circle them first.”

The car pulls up to the East Tower at precisely 11:03 a.m. I don’t wait for the driver to open the door.

Dorian follows, phone in hand, murmuring into a Bluetooth line about a zoning variance request. It’s unnecessary to listen. The request will be approved because I already signed the right favors into motion three months ago.

That’s the thing about influence: People assume it’s about pressure. But real power is what happens when you no longer need to push.

We enter through the private access elevator.

The top floors belong to Dane Capital Urban Assets. That name means little to most. It’s the name stamped across real estate portfolios, infrastructure investments, equity leases, lobbying shells. To the public, it’s a clean, respectable, corporate, and toothless name.

They don’t see the wiring underneath. DCUA is parent company that most companies I own directly or indirectly link back to. Including Dane Holdings and Finch Corp.

At floor forty-three, the glass doors slide open to an atrium of matte black stone and engineered serenity. I ignore the nods from my executives. I don’t waste time on greetings unless they serve me.

Dorian holds the elevator for another few seconds, shielding my left side from view. I tap a thin black device in my coat pocket once. A silent ping confirms an encrypted signal.

The surveillance feed loads on my phone.

Vera is walking out of her office building. She’s dressed sharply again, but her steps lack the snap they had last week. Her coat shifts too far to the left. She tugs it once, annoyed.

On screen, she brushes her hair back behind her ear. That gesture means she’s pushing away a thought. Or trying to.

I keep watching.

At 10:22 a.m. in the arbitration room, she tossed her pen straight up and caught it mid-air with the same hand. She thought no one noticed. Her opposing counsel flinched.

At 10:47, she paused mid-sentence, lips parted like she forgot the next word. That hasn’t happened in years.

At 11:01, she closed her eyes in frustration briefly as if she was forcing herself not to scream.

She’s done that four times today.

I log it. Four times, before noon.

She’s unraveling.

Dorian clears his throat. “Presentation starts in fifteen. Harbor District investment deck is loaded. Legal counsel from three of the bidding firms are here already.”

I nod once and tuck the phone away. “Showtime.”

***

The conference room on 43A is a study in restraint with neutral tones, triple-glazed windows, and twelve chairs on either side of the table. The chairs are more for posture than comfort.

The view of Lower Manhattan from a height that makes chaos look still is a reminder that people absorb unconsciously.

Representatives from the bidding firms arrive in tailored packs. Energy consultants, housing developers, and attorneys. I shake two hands I’ve shaken before and allow the rest to introduce themselves, like it matters.

Then someone new enters.

He’s tall, in his early thirties, wearing a gray suit and a stiff smile. There’s a partner badge clipped to his breast pocket, neat and precise.

“Richard Lyle,” he says. “From Finch Corp. Here on behalf of our client’s urban interest division.”

Finch Corp. Vera’s firm.

I raise an eyebrow slightly enough to note.

Dorian slides a folder toward me on the table.

The tab already reads: LYLE, RICHARD DAVENPORT. He’s been on my radar since February. I give no reaction. I don’t speak to him or around him.

For the next thirty minutes, the room is filled with polished voices explaining renewable frameworks, tax-benefit overlays, zoning concessions, and investor returns. I nod once, maybe twice.

But my mind isn’t on the slides.

It’s on the man two seats down. And the firm stitched in silver across his lanyard.

Finch Corp isn’t just in the building; they’re in the room. On record. And Richard Lyle doesn’t know he was invited here by design.

He thinks it’s business. He doesn’t know it’s proximity or that he’s carrying her scent.

He doesn’t know I’m watching every shift in his face, every note he takes, every phrase he uses that she might’ve written into the prep memo. I know her tone and logic. I can hear it in his delivery.

I fold my hands on the table, lean back slightly, and glance toward the window as he speaks. He’s competent, polished, and a little eager.

Good.

I want him to feel welcome. I want him to return with praise. To mention the architecture, control, and calm. I want him to carry all of it back to her.

Because she’s closer now.

And she doesn’t even know.

We adjourn. People murmur about follow-ups and next steps. Some of them believe they’re still negotiating. I let them.

As they file out, Dorian leans in.

“Lyle’s been on four project teams tied to Vera this year,” he says under his breath. “He’s close enough to debrief her.”

I nod. “Encourage that.”

“Should I prepare a soft block for the bid round?”

“Not yet,” I say. “We let them clear round one. Make them feel credible. Real investment only matters when it believes itself wanted.”

Dorian checks his notes. “You’ll be late for the awards luncheon at the Arlow.”