He was twenty-two, drove a matte-black Porsche bought with his father’s money, and genuinely believed the strip of black cotton tied around his waist made him a predator. He cornered me near the catering tent, cracking his knuckles, grinning for the crowd of trust-fund friends he’d assembled. He wanted to break the quiet, graying driver to prove a point. He didn’t know I’d spent twelve years in the teams. He didn’t know violence wasn’t a sport to me. It was a native language.
The leather seat of Richard Cole’s armored Mercedes-Maybach always smelled like expensive cologne and sterile recycled air. I sat behind the wheel, the engine idling in a silent hum, watching the rain streak the tinted glass. I was officially on the payroll as executive protection and logistics. In reality, I was a glorified chauffeur for a billionaire who made his fortune buying up distressed industrial properties and selling them for parts. Richard Cole was a man who viewed the world through the lens of leverage. Everyone was a tool, an obstacle, or an audience. I was a tool. Specifically, I was the heavy, silent object that made him feel secure when he traveled through the city he owned.
“Jack.” The voice came through the intercom from the back seat, crisp, demanding. “Yes, Mr. Cole.” “We’re going to be late for the merger dinner. Find a way around this.” “Traffic is deadlocked on the FDR, sir. Accident up ahead. I’ll cut through the surface streets.” I eased the massive vehicle out of the standstill, slipping it through a closing gap between a delivery truck and a cab with an inch to spare. I did it smoothly, without spiking the RPMs. Smooth meant invisible. Invisible was exactly what I wanted to be.