Two assistants trailed him like pilot fish. one tapping furiously on a tablet, the other juggling a coffee cup and a phone.

Dashel Ventress.

I didn’t know his name then, but I knew his type. I’d seen warlords with less arrogance and more honor.

He bypassed the line entirely. He didn’t even look at us. To him, the people standing between the velvet ropes were just furniture. He headed straight for the VIP counter at the far end.

“Garrett,” he announced, his voice booming across the silent lobby. He slammed a hand down on the marble counter. “I don’t have all day. Movement is money.”

The young banker, Garrett, looked like he was about to swallow his tongue. “Mr. Ventress! We… we weren’t expecting you. If you’d called—”

“I don’t make appointments, Garrett. I make decisions.”