Victor sat at his expansive desk, the polished mahogany surface covered with various documents and financial reports. His fingers danced across the various papers and books, eyes scanning them as he processed information and made decisions that would affect the fortunes of many. The rhythmic ticking of an antique clock on the wall marked the passage of time, a steady counterpoint to the frenetic pace of his thoughts.
Suddenly, Victor's hands stilled on the white paper. His eyes lost focus, staring unseeing at the book before him. A face had emerged in his mind, unbidden and unexpected. It was a face he hadn't thought he would think of, one he had purposely buried deep in the recesses of his memory.
Without conscious thought, Victor's hand reached for a drawer, pulling out a sheet of low-quality paper. He set it before him, then paused, his right hand moving to massage his temple as if trying to coax the memory into sharper focus.
With his left hand, Victor began to write. The words flowed onto the paper, his usually impeccable handwriting slightly shaky and uneven as he used his non-dominant hand:
.
.
.
.
Stay safe, And know that I always think about you,
Love You
Always,
A
Victor's hand trembled as he signed the letter with a simple 'A'. He sat back in his chair, feeling drained, as if the act of writing had sapped him of all energy. The face that had appeared in his mind's eye -her face - slowly faded, leaving behind a bittersweet ache in his chest.
He folded the letter carefully, placing it in an envelope that he sealed with a drop of wax. Then, with a deep breath, he pressed the bell on his desk.
"Send in Johnson," he instructed his secretary.
Moments later, a tall, broad-shouldered man entered the office. Johnson was one of Victor's most trusted operatives, a man who could be relied upon for the most sensitive of tasks.
"I need this delivered," Victor said, handing over the envelope. "The usual precautions. And Johnson? This never happened."
Johnson nodded, understanding the gravity of the task. He tucked the envelope into his jacket and left without a word.
Victor leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Send in Anthony," he instructed calling someone again.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. Anthony shuffled in, a stark contrast to the imposing Johnson. He was a slight man with round glasses perched on his nose, his arms full of files and papers. Despite his bookish appearance, Anthony's eyes were sharp and calculating.
"Well, well," Anthony said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "The great Victor Mallory finally remembers he has an underling. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me entirely, what with you leaving all the decision-making and operations to me alone. I must say, it's been quite exhausting."
Victor regarded Anthony coolly, ignoring the man's tone. "Perhaps you'd prefer I give your responsibilities to someone else?" he said, his voice deceptively casual.
The effect on Anthony was immediate. His eyes widened in panic, and he nearly dropped the files he was carrying. "You're joking, right?" he sputtered. "No one else can handle this job. No one else can play with their minds like I can, make them hope they'll earn a fortune while we're the ones really profiting. You can't take this away from me. Ever."
Victor allowed a small smile to play at the corners of his mouth. "Relax, Anthony. Your position is secure... for now. But I'd advise you to watch your tone. I may have given you a long leash, but don't forget who holds that leash."
Anthony nodded, visibly relieved but still wary. "Of course, Mr. Mallory. I apologize for my outburst. It's just been a lot of pressure lately, with some new competition"
"I understand," Victor said, his voice softening slightly. "That's actually why I called you in. I need a full report on our current operations, particularly the ones involving our more... sensitive investments."
Anthony's eyes lit up at this. Despite his earlier complaints, it was clear he relished his role in Victor's organization. "Of course, Mr. Mallory. Where would you like me to start?"
For the next hour, Anthony briefed Victor on the intricate web of businesses and investments that made up their empire. Legal enterprises intertwined with less savoury operations, all carefully balanced to maximize profit while minimizing risk. Victor listened intently, asking pointed questions and making mental notes.
As Anthony wound down his report, Victor leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "And what about our charitable ventures?" he asked. "The Haven, in particular. How are we managing the finances there?"
Anthony's brow furrowed slightly. "The Haven? But that's just a cover, isn't it? A way to launder some of our less legitimate income?"
Victor's eyes hardened. "The Haven is off-limits, Anthony. It's not a front, not a cover, and certainly not a way to launder money. It's exactly what it appears to be - a sanctuary for those who need it. I want it kept separate from our other operations. Completely separate. Is that clear?"
Anthony looked taken aback by Victor's vehemence, but he nodded quickly. "Of course, Mr. Mallory. I'll make sure it's handled accordingly."
"Good," Victor said, his tone brooking no argument. "Now, there's one more thing. I'm bringing in some new personnel for a special project. You'll be notified of their arrival, but I don't want you asking questions or interfering with their work. Understood?"
Anthony nodded again, curiosity burning in his eyes but knowing better than to press for details. "Understood, sir. Is there anything else?"
Victor leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded Anthony with a calculating gaze. The fading light of the evening sun cast long shadows across his office, creating an almost theatrical ambience for the conversation about to unfold.
"Anthony," Victor began, his voice low and measured, "give me an update on the Storm Project. How are we faring in the world of horse racing?"
Anthony shifted in his seat, adjusting his glasses before diving into his report. "Well, Mr. Mallory, as with any new venture entering an established market, we're facing our fair share of challenges."
Victor nodded, gesturing for Anthony to continue.
"To be frank, we're up against tough competition. The established stables and racing syndicates aren't taking kindly to our presence. We're dealing with fewer customers than initially projected, higher expenses than anticipated, and..." Anthony paused, clearing his throat, "even some thinly veiled threats."
Victor's eyes narrowed at this last piece of information, but he remained silent, allowing Anthony to continue his briefing.
"However," Anthony said, his tone brightening slightly, "it's not all doom and gloom. Your insistence on maintaining the quality of our horse breeds and trained racers, coupled with the minimal charges we're offering, is starting to pay off. Our popularity is slowly but steadily rising."
A small smile played at the corners of Victor's mouth. "Good. That's precisely what we want - a slow, steady build rather than a sudden, suspicious surge."
Anthony nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly, sir. And if I may say, our next few... strategically planned wins will undoubtedly cause our horse racing business to soar."
Victor raised an eyebrow at Anthony's careful choice of words. "Strategically planned wins, Anthony? Do elaborate."
Anthony leaned forward, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Well, Mr. Mallory, as per your instructions, we've been careful not to draw too much attention to ourselves. We've lost more races than we've won, but we've always placed respectably. Now, we're positioning ourselves for a series of wins that will seem like a natural progression - the result of our superior breeding and training programs."
Victor nodded slowly, processing the information. "And these wins, they're guaranteed?"
Anthony's smile widened. "As guaranteed as they can be in this business, sir. We've... let's say, we've taken certain precautions to ensure favourable outcomes."
For a moment, Victor was silent, his mind racing through the implications of Anthony's words. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a note of warning. "Be careful, Anthony. We're walking a fine line here. I want success, yes, but not at the cost of everything we've built. If there's even a whisper of impropriety, it could bring down not just the Storm Project, but our entire operation."
Anthony's smile faltered slightly. "Of course, Mr. Mallory. We're being extremely cautious. The methods we're using are virtually undetectable. And we're spreading our influence across multiple races and tracks to avoid any suspicious patterns."
Victor stood up, walking to the large window that dominated one wall of his office. He gazed out at the city skyline, the lights of buildings twinkling like stars in the gathering dusk. "Tell me about the threats you mentioned earlier," he said, his back still to Anthony.
Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's nothing concrete, sir. Just whispers really. Some of the older stables aren't happy with our presence. There have been... incidents. A stable fire that was quickly contained, a jockey who suddenly became too ill to race, that sort of thing. Nothing we can directly attribute to our competitors, but the timing is suspicious."