The Chairman leaned back in his seat. His wiry fra folded like an old blade, but still remained sharp enough to cut through bone if drawn. His eyes, black and heavy, did not leave Dominic. They didn’t even blink.
It was one of the younger n on the far side who broke the silence first. His voice was slick, and practiced, when he parted his lips. "So... the Cross boy talks like the world bends on his word. Tell , Dominic, how many storms have you survived, alone? Without the shadow of your father at your back?"
A ripple of murmurs flicked through the table. Almost all sixty n had sothing to say. The rest of the few who had nothing to say leaned back on their seats.
Dominic didn’t answer. His silence was deliberate. He processed every word he heard on the table, and let the man’s words echo and die of their own emptiness. Grigor shifted behind him, his stance firm, as if daring anyone else to step forward.
The Chairman’s finger tapped once against the lacquered wood. That was all it took for the room to go hush again. He finally spoke, gravel deep in his tone.
"Young man, storms co, they take, they break, and they drown. The only question is who survives them. Dominic Cross... he has not been tested enough, perhaps. But I see in him the sa hunger I once carried."
His words drew nods from so, and scowls from others. Dominic. Eyes moved across the table, without him moving his eyes.
The heavyset man with the diamond ring leaned forward, his face was still flushed from the earlier exchange.
He scoffed, eying Dominic. He already made it clear how deep his dislike for Dominic goes. "Hunger doesn’t make a man. Hunger makes a beggar. And I don’t sit at this table with beggars."
Another man, lean and tall with eyes like needles, laughed under his breath. "Careful, Chen. A hungry man will kill quicker than a starving dog. And from the way he sits there, silent and sharp, I’d say Dominic Cross is not begging. He’s choosing."
Dominic finally let his gaze shift to the needle-eyed man with a slow turn of his head. He stared at the man for so seconds and in a low, and unhurried manner, he said, "You see correctly."
The lean man smirked. "I like you," he complinted.
The heavyset Chen gritted his teeth, but didn’t speak again.
From the opposite end, a silk-suited rchant who’d built empires from opium routes clicked his tongue. His voice was smooth, and almost amused when he parted his lip. "Tell , Dominic. You sit at this table, promising futures, speaking of tides and debts buried in the ground. But what is it you bring? Contracts? Weapons? n? Or just words dressed in confidence?"
Dominic’s eyes swept the whole table, reading everyone’s body language, before returning to the rchant. He leaned back, almost relaxed, before answering. "I bring inevitability."
A murmur of dissent rolled through the hall. So scoffed, others chuckled, and a few leaned in with intrigue.
The Chairman lifted a hand and they fell silent again. His eyes glittered with sothing unspoken. Deep buried in his eyes were interest, maybe approval, but veiled, and dangerous.
"Inevitability," he repeated, rolling the word slowly, as though tasting its edge. "A bold claim."
Another man, with hair silver, and a dim yet magnetic presence calm yet terrifying, finally spoke. He rarely joined discussions, which made his words carry more weight. "Bold n fill graveyards. But they also carve dynasties. The main question we should ask is...." He turned his head toward the Chairman. "Do we believe this one will live long enough to prove which side he belongs to? We can’t just join an old war that does not concern us if the reward isn’t staggering."
The Chairman chuckled softly. He leaned forward, and rested both elbows on the table. He locked his fingers together. "Belief is for priests and gamblers. What I see... is a boy who carries his father’s shadow, yes, but also one who has been sharpened."
The table fell into a hushed pause at that, weighing the Chairman’s words.
Chen shifted uncomfortably. The silk rchant drumd his fingers, and the needle-eyed man’s grin widened.
Grigor’s jaw tightened as he watched, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. Dominic’s stillness spoke for itself.
Another voice broke through. This one was cold, detached, and like ice. He was a man from Moscow, who was draped in a black suit. His accent ca out heavy.
"And what of Carlos?" he asked, his voice cutting through the air like frost. "You speak of futures, Dominic Cross, but the present is painted with his shadow. You want us to tie our hands to you, when his hand still presses on every throat here. Tell us, how will you remove it?"
Eyes turned to Dominic. Even the Chairman tilted his head slightly, waiting.
Dominic didn’t flinch. His reply was stripped bare. "With patience, and precision." He replied, holding the gaze of the man who asked.
The Moscow man narrowed his eyes, clearly dissatisfied, but the Chairman raised a hand before more could be pressed.
"Enough."
The word broke the tension. Silence followed.
The Chairman’s gaze swept the table, then returned to Dominic. His lips curled, slow and dangerous. He weighted Dominic.
"You all hear him. You all see him. I knew him from when his father was alive. He does not run, nor would he stumble."
The Chairman sat back, his wiry fra sinking into the shadows cast by the golden light. His eyes glittered. "Dominic Cross... you remind of a ti when I too thought the world would bend if I speak. Perhaps you will succeed where I failed. Or perhaps you will drown, as so many before you. Ti will decide."
He let the words settle, heavy and final. Then he straightened, his authority snapping the air taut. "But for now, gentlen, the matter is closed."
Every man sat up straighter, and every whisper died.
"See you all in London. We’ll have a formal ball party to seal our agreents." He added, and stood up imdiately.
Dominic nodded, his fingers drumming beneath the table.
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