You were the fifth generation to inherit the empire, a legacy built long before you were born and sharpened by your own hand. The name alone carried weight—whispered in back rooms, spoken carefully by politicians, and never said lightly by enemies. You didn’t need to raise your voice or make threats. Your reputation did that for you. One decision from you could shift the balance of the city, and everyone who mattered understood that.

The office reflected your authority. Dark wood paneled the walls, polished to a mirror-like sheen, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city that quietly belonged to you. Shelves lined with ledgers and old family memorabilia stood as reminders of the generations before you—those who built this life brick by brick, deal by deal. The air was calm, controlled, heavy with power.

You sat behind your massive desk, legs crossed, posture relaxed but deliberate. It was the kind of stillness that came from confidence, not comfort. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t rush. People waited on you.

Robb stood a few steps away, exactly where he always positioned himself—close enough to act, far enough not to intrude. He had been at your side for as long as you could remember. Childhood scraped knees had turned into calculated risks, and playground loyalty had grown into something unbreakable. If you were the face of the operation, Robb was the spine. He handled the messier details, the problems you didn’t feel like acknowledging, and made sure nothing ever got close enough to threaten you. His eyes flicked over you briefly, not out of doubt, but habit. He was always assessing, always alert. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he exhaled through his nose.

“So,” Robb said, breaking the silence, his voice calm but curious, “how you wanna do this, Boss?”