Page 9 of Deadly Legacy (The House of Matvei #3)

“This is what Wallace Hoyt’s group is after,” Reuben said, pausing the demonstration with a tap of his finger.

The conference room’s bright lighting highlighted the tense faces of his team of financial and technology specialists.

“It will boil down to innovation versus legacy,” Reuben said, standing at the head of the conference table in Matthew Capital’s main meeting room.

“That’s how we’ll position this competition against my father’s firm. ”

The word “ father ” caught in his throat almost imperceptibly, a small hitch that he covered by tapping the screen to advance to the next slide.

Through the glass walls, Reuben noticed the increased security presence Nikon had arranged—professionals positioned strategically throughout the floor, their vigilance disguised as corporate routine.

“Wallace Hoyt’s investment group has the advantage of a twenty-year track record,” he continued, turning back to face his team. “But we have something more valuable.” His finger moved across the screen, pulling up his father’s company’s financial data. “We have relevance.”

Jacob, his lead analyst, leaned forward with a nod. The smell of his minty gum reached Reuben as he spoke. “Their last three investments tanked. They’re bleeding money and clients know it.”

“And their biggest clients are jumping ship,” added Talia from tech assessment, her fingers dancing across her tablet. “Rich people talk to each other, and word’s getting around.”

Reuben nodded, his mouth curving into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Which is why they’re desperate for Quantize Guard. So, we’ll show the founders that we understand their tech in ways Wallace’s dinosaur firm never could.”

He scrolled through the presentation, highlighting key points for tomorrow’s final pitch. The respect in his team’s eyes fueled something warm in his chest. Here, his vision mattered. Here, he wasn’t the disappointing son who’d failed to meet expectations.

“Questions?” Reuben looked around the table. When no one spoke, he nodded once. “Let’s come back here at four to review the final numbers.”

Five minutes later, the leather chair in his office creaked as Reuben sank into it, the cool material a relief against his back. He loosened his tie and leaned his head back, exhaling slowly. The meeting had gone well, but tension still coiled in his shoulders.

Months of building Matthew Capital from a laundering front into a legitimate venture. And now everything hinged on beating his father at his own game.

His phone buzzed against the polished mahogany of his desk.

The screen lit up with an unfamiliar number.

When Reuben opened the message, he recognized it instantly as an email-to-text service - of course his father would use the corporate system rather than sending a direct text.

His heart rate quickened at the familiar signature below the message:

I believe we should clear the air before our respective presentations. Dinner, 8pm?

Sent from [email protected]

The terse efficiency, the corporate email signature... it was unmistakably Wallace. This was the first direct contact from his father in years, packaged as if they’d merely missed a regular lunch appointment.

Reuben’s hand clenched, then relaxed before setting the phone down.

His throat tightened. A small part of him, the part that still remembered his father’s rare smile of pride at academic awards ceremonies, hoped this could mean something more.

But the businessman he’d become recognized this for what it really was. .. a tactical move.

A soft knock interrupted Reuben’s thoughts. “Something’s wrong,” Nikon said quietly. He closed the door behind him, his presence immediately filling the room. He wore one of his impeccably tailored suits, and his eyes softened with concern when they fell on Reuben.

Reuben picked up his phone and held it out. “Wallace wants to meet.”

Nikon’s features tensed, then relaxed. He crossed the room in three strides, taking the phone and reading the message.

“He’s certainly straight to the point,” Nikon said, handing the phone back. His fingers brushed against Reuben’s, a purposeful touch that lingered. “What are you thinking?”

Reuben set the phone screen-down on his desk. “That it’s not a coincidence he reaches out now, after years of silence.”

“It’s not,” Nikon agreed, settling into the chair across from Reuben. “He wants something. Information, perhaps. Or to shake your confidence before the presentation.”

Reuben rubbed his temples. “Or both.”

“You don’t have to meet him.”

Reuben looked up, catching Nikon’s gaze. “But I want to.” The words surprised him as they left his mouth, but they were true. “I want to see what he has to say. What he looks like now.”

Nikon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then meet him. But not anywhere he chooses.” His eyes never left Reuben’s face. “Vasilisa. Our restaurant. My people will be there, but discreet. And I’ll watch from the bar.”

A year ago, Nikon would have forbidden the meeting altogether, or insisted on sitting at the table. The suggestion now—offering security while respecting boundaries—showed how far they’d come.

“Thank you.” Reuben reached across the desk, touching Nikon’s hand. “For understanding this is something I need to do myself.”

Nikon turned his palm up, briefly squeezing Reuben’s fingers. “This is your decision. Just be careful. From everything you’ve told me about him, he only makes moves that benefit himself.”

“I know.” Reuben pulled back, straightening papers on his desk. “I’ll send the counter-offer. Vasilisa, 8pm.”

Nikon nodded once, standing. “I have meetings until six. Dinner at home after?”

“I’ll be there.”

After Nikon left, Reuben stared at the message he’d just sent to Wallace, the words glowing accusingly on his screen.

Then he pulled up the Quantize Guard files again.

The numbers blurred together as he stared at his screen.

His father’s voice echoed in his head: “Emotional decisions, Reuben. That’s why you’ll never have what it takes. ”

Reuben pushed away from the desk, rolling his shoulders against the tension building there. The financial projections would make more sense after he cleared his head.

The elevator hummed as it carried him to the basement level. Matthew Capital’s private gym—another one of Nikon’s security measures—was small but well-equipped, ensuring Reuben could maintain his training without leaving the building.

The sharp smell of disinfectant mixed with sweat hit him as he pushed open the door. Stepan was already there, winding athletic tape around his knuckles and wrists. The head of security’s massive frame made the gym seem smaller than it was. He nodded when Reuben entered.

“Didn’t expect to see you today,” Stepan said, his muted Russian accent softening the words. Stepan had been stationed at Matthew Capital as part of Nikon’s increased security measures, spending his downtime in the gym between patrol rotations. “Something happen?”

Reuben stripped off his dress shirt, revealing the lean muscle he’d developed over months of training. “Just needed to clear my head.”

Stepan tossed him some hand wraps. “A clear head is good. But a focused mind is better.”

They moved to the mats. Reuben’s first punches carried unusual force, his movements aggressive rather than controlled. The impact against the pads sent vibrations up his arms, each hit landing with a satisfying thud. Stepan blocked easily, his expression unreadable.

“More power today. Good.” Stepan adjusted his stance with a grunt. “Form is garbage, though. Balance first, always. Power follows.”

Reuben tried again, focusing on his footwork. His knuckles stung with each impact against Stepan’s practice pads, the sharp pain oddly satisfying.

Three combinations later, Stepan stepped back, frowning. “Your mind is elsewhere. In a real fight, this gets you killed.”

Reuben lowered his hands, sweat dripping down his temples and leaving cool trails on his heated skin. “My father contacted me. Wants to meet before the Quantize Guard presentation.”

“Ah.” Stepan nodded, understanding immediately. “The father who cut ties.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Reuben grabbed a towel, wiping his face. “Nikon arranged for us to meet at Vasilisa tonight.”

Stepan’s eyes narrowed, a rare flicker of approval crossing his normally impassive face. “Smart choice.” His fingers already tapped rapidly on his phone. “I’ll adjust the security rotation.”

“I don’t need—” Reuben’s hands lifted in protest.

“Not for you,” Stepan interrupted, his thick finger tapping Reuben’s chest once. “For Nikon. He’ll pace all night, checking his phone every three minutes.” He hesitated, then added, “I understand complicated fathers. Mine was a bastard too.”

The admission surprised Reuben. In months of training, Stepan had never shared anything personal.

“What happened between you?” Reuben asked, taking a water bottle from the small fridge. The cold plastic felt good against his palm.

Stepan flexed his hands, considering his words. “He drank, he hit, he blamed us for his failures. When I was twenty, I saw him in Moscow after years apart.” He gestured for Reuben to correct his stance, moving his right foot slightly outward. “I thought seeing him would fix something.”

“Did it?”

“No. But it showed me something important.” Stepan’s eyes met Reuben’s. “He was still the same cruel man, but I was no longer the scared boy. But that knowledge? It freed me.”

Reuben considered Stepan’s words, turning them over in his mind. The parallel was clear; both facing fathers who had caused pain, both needing to confront that past not for reconciliation but for closure. The insight was unexpected, coming from the typically reserved security chief.

“Thank you,” Reuben said simply. “For sharing that.”

Stepan nodded once, then raised the practice pads. “Now hit properly. Anger doesn’t win fights. Control does.”