The Proposal

The scotch was fifty years old, amber-gold and smelling of peat and patience. It was older than the man pouring it, and certainly more refined than the man about to drink it.

Alistair Sterling placed the crystal tumbler on the obsidian surface of the conference table. The sound was a polite, heavy *clink* that echoed in the silence of the "Sky Vault."

"Single malt," Alistair said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that barely rose above the hum of the air filtration system. "Bottled before you were born, Mr. O'Malley. I trust it meets your standards."

Declan "The Hammer" O'Malley laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound that grated against the sterile perfection of the room. Declan was a wide man, built like a vending machine and dressed in a suit that looked like it had been bought off a rack at a discount outlet. He sprawled in the ergonomic leather chair, flanked by two bodyguards who looked nervous despite their bulk.

"I didn't come here to drink your fancy booze, Sterling," Declan sneered. He didn't pick up the glass. "I came to hear why you wasted my Tuesday."

Alistair adjusted his cuffs. They were silver, engraved with the Sterling family crest—a lion dormant.

"It’s not a waste, Declan. It’s an opportunity." Alistair slid a thick, cream-colored folder across the black table. It stopped perfectly at the edge of Declan’s placemat. "A full acquisition of your shipping lanes in the South Side. The terms are generous. Twenty percent above market value, full retention of your current street-level captains, and a comfortable retirement package for yourself in... I believe you have a fondness for Florida?"

Declan picked up the folder. He didn't open it. He held it like a dirty rag.

"You think you can buy me out?" Declan asked, his face reddening. "My family has held the docks since the Prohibition. We bled for that concrete."

"And now you are bleeding cash for it," Alistair countered gently. "The Feds are squeezing your unions. The Russians are encroaching from the north. I am offering you a parachute, Declan. Pull the cord."

Declan stood up. He grabbed the glass of fifty-year-old scotch.

Alistair watched, his face impassive.

Declan turned his wrist and poured the amber liquid onto the carpet. It soaked into the pristine, dove-gray Persian wool, leaving a dark, ugly stain.

"That," Declan said, dropping the empty glass onto the table, "is what I think of your offer. I don't sell to accountants, Sterling. I break them."

Alistair sighed. He looked at the stain. He looked at his watch—a vintage Patek Philippe. It was 9:07 PM. The cleaning crew would be disappointed.

"That rug was woven in Isfahan," Alistair said softly. "It is irreplaceable."

"Like my territory," Declan spat. He ripped the contract in half and threw the pieces in Alistair’s face. "This meeting is over. And if your trucks come near my docks, I’ll send them back with the drivers in the cargo hold."

Declan snapped his fingers. His two bodyguards reached into their jackets.

The protocol for the Sky Vault was strict: no weapons. But Declan was a man who prided himself on breaking rules he deemed soft.

Alistair didn't flinch as the metal of the pistols caught the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He simply felt a familiar, cold weight settle in his chest. It was the beast waking up, the thing he spent thousands of dollars on tailors and therapists to keep dormant.

"Regrettable," Alistair whispered.