Chapter 38: Bruce's Methods
"What does it matter what his name is?! Call security and have him removed!" Another director, his face red with indignation, slammed his hand on the table and pointed a trembling finger at Bruce.
Bruce ignored him. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table—Fisk's old seat—and sat down as if he owned it.
"Sell me your shares in Fisk Global. I believe it is your best option." He propped his chin on his hand, his expression one of utter, casual certainty.
Some of the older directors were so incensed by the young man's audacity they actually laughed. "Who do you think you are, talking to us like that?" one sneered.
Bruce's smile didn't waver. "Triff Bogard, is it? I think you should read this before you speak to me." He gave a slight nod. One of his bodyguards stepped forward, opening a slim document case and extracting a single file. He placed it in front of the director named Triff.
Triff glanced at Bruce, then down at the unmarked folder. Under Bruce's unwavering gaze, he slowly opened it. The other directors, curious but maintaining their dignified poses, watched from their seats.
They saw Triff's expression shift. The initial condescension melted into seriousness, then hardened into naked horror. Cold sweat visibly beaded on his forehead.
"I agree," Triff croaked, his voice hoarse, not looking up from the damning pages.
A bodyguard immediately placed a share transfer agreement in front of him, a pen laid neatly beside it.
"The contracts are prepared. Your compensation will follow. Thank you for your cooperation." Bruce's tone was pleasant, almost conversational.
Triff wasn't thinking about compensation. He just wanted to sign and be gone. He didn't even read the contract, flipping directly to the signature line and scrawling his name with a frantic hand. He stood to leave, clutching the incriminating file to his chest like a shield.
Bruce held up a hand. "Don't be in such a rush." He rose, walked over, and glanced at the signature. "A distinctive hand. But you seem to have forgotten something." From the same document case, Bruce produced a stack of crisp, unregistered bearer bonds—the very ones from Fisk's basement vault. He carefully placed them in the now-empty folder Triff was holding. "Don't forget your severance."
He straightened Triff's lapels with a paternalistic pat on the shoulders. "That's the look of a true professional. My apologies for not seeing you out. Business to attend to." With a final, almost dismissive tap on Triff's left shoulder, Bruce returned to his seat.
Triff fled without a backward glance.
His reaction was a neon warning sign to every other person in the room. They looked at Bruce now with deep, wary apprehension.
"Oh, and I have documents for the rest of you as well." Bruce responded to their stares with a benign smile. He motioned again. The bodyguards moved with silent efficiency, placing identical file folders in front of each remaining director. Beside each folder, they laid a share transfer contract and a pen.
"Do read carefully. It would be unfortunate if the contents of these files became... public knowledge." Bruce leaned back, steepling his fingers.
The bodyguards completed their task and resumed their posts, statues of implied threat.
The directors, their earlier bravado gone, opened their folders. They had prepared themselves for some mild corporate dirt, maybe evidence of insider trading.
What they found was a comprehensive, meticulous dossier of every illegal or unethical act they had ever committed: tax evasion, bid-rigging, bribery, even darker personal secrets long buried.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of Bruce's finger lightly drumming on the polished mahogany table cut through the tense silence, a metronome counting down their careers.
The directors were numb. This wasn't a negotiation. It was an annihilation.
One director finally looked up, his face pale but set in stubborn defiance. "Young man, I hope you know what you're doing. A company this size... it's too big for you to swallow. You'll choke."
"I don't have the appetite to swallow it," Bruce said lightly.
"Then what—"
"Did I just hear a threat?" Bruce interrupted, his voice still light, though the smile on his face grew colder. "And do you really believe you are in a position to make one?"
He leaned back, the picture of relaxed control. "Whether I can 'swallow' it or not is irrelevant. Fisk Global is a sinking ship. You're clinging to burning wreckage. My offer is the only lifeboat."
He let the silence hang. One by one, the directors, their spirits broken by the evidence before them, picked up their pens. They signed, some with trembling hands. They were more composed than Triff—they remembered to take their folders of bonds.
Bruce sat patiently, waiting as the room slowly emptied.
Finally, only the defiant director remained, his unsigned contract before him. He picked up the pen, his jaw clenched.
Bruce reached over and slid the contract away from him.
"I'm sorry, sir. That offer is now void." Bruce smiled, perching on the edge of the table next to the stunned man. He plucked the pen from the director's fingers, twirling it idly, the epitome of the careless, powerful playboy.
"What is the meaning of this?!" the director spluttered.
Before Bruce could answer, a new commotion sounded from the hall. "NYPD. Please step aside." A uniformed officer showed his badge to the bodyguard at the door.
"Let them in," Bruce called out calmly.
The officer entered, looking around the opulent, tense room. "We received a call. Is there a problem here?"
"Yes, officer, there is." Bruce hopped off the table, his manner shifting to one of concerned civility. He picked up the folder he'd taken from the director. "While conducting a routine internal audit, we uncovered some deeply disturbing activities by this individual. Frankly, I'm appalled. I had no idea such a predator was in our midst."
He handed the folder—the director's own dossier—to the officer. "We just wanted to ensure no one was lining their pockets. We never expected... this."
The director shot to his feet. "This is outrageous! You—!" He took a step toward Bruce, but a bodyguard smoothly intercepted him, holding him back with firm, professional restraint.
The officer watched, his hand drifting toward his duty belt. The director's aggressive move hadn't gone unnoticed.
As the officer scanned the document, his expression grew grave. This was far above a patrol officer's pay grade. His job now was simple: take the suspect into custody.
"Thank you for your vigilance, sir," the officer said to Bruce, nodding to his partner. They moved to escort the loudly protesting director from the room.
The man stopped struggling as they passed the floor-to-ceiling windows. Down on the street, he saw his wife and teenage son just arriving, looking up at the building with confused, worried faces. The fight drained out of him. He was finished.
Bruce stood by the window, watching silently as the police car pulled away. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He was utterly still, a statue of dark intent looking out over the city he was beginning to claim, piece by piece. The playboy was gone. Only the strategist remained.
(End of Chapter)
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