Victor leaned back against the cream-colored leather, phone to his ear, calmly dictating figures that would decide the fate of thousands of workers within his real estate empire.
“Yes, finalize it in Monaco before midnight. The margins make the risk worthwhile,” he said, his voice cold and precise.
To Victor, the world fell into two categories: people who created wealth and people who stood in the way. He firmly believed he belonged to the first.
In the back seat sat Daniel, his ten-year-old son, silent and observant. Dressed in an expensive sweater and tailored pants, the boy watched the streets his father had trained him to overlook.
Victor had always taught him to look forward—toward the towers Victor had built himself. Never down.
But today, Daniel’s attention fixed on a bleak corner just before the traffic light on Main Street.
The air there smelled of damp concrete, exhaust, and hopelessness.
Curled against a brick wall layered with graffiti was a woman wrapped in heavy coats and faded blankets. A gloved hand stretched toward passing cars.
Victor noticed his son’s silence and frowned.