Derek stepped out of the tailor's shop looking like a completely different man. The morning sun glinted off the glass storefront behind him, casting a sharp silhouette across the sidewalk. The crisp winter air bit gently at his face, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—calm, focused, moving through lists and plans with machine-like precision.
The tailor had done excellent work. Derek's new outfit was sleek, understated, and perfectly fitted. A charcoal jacket, black slacks, and a deep green dress shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. He looked older—more refined, more dangerous. Appearance mattered more than people cared to admit. And now he looked like someone who belonged in boardrooms, not college dorms.
He hailed a cab and slid inside. "Fenway District," he said.
Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of a glass-and-steel luxury car dealership. Inside, the air smelled faintly of leather and new engines. The cars sat under bright spotlights like exotic animals in a showroom—sleek, aggressive, expensive.
As Derek walked in, a sales representative spotted him instantly and hurried over. The man's smile stretched wide, his posture straightened, and his tone took on a practiced warmth.
"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome. How can I assist you today?"
Derek noted the enthusiasm. A few days ago—when he was thin, tired-looking, and wearing threadbare clothes—this man would have barely glanced at him, maybe even tried to escort him out. Now? They practically rolled out a metaphorical red carpet.
"Mercedes G-Class AMG 63," Derek said without preamble, pointing toward the matte-black beast sitting on a raised platform. "I'll take that one."
The sales rep blinked. "Ah—of course! Excellent choice, sir. It's one of our most in-demand models. This one is fully loaded, comes with—"
"I don't need the pitch." Derek's voice remained calm. "Prepare the paperwork."
The man swallowed, nodding rapidly. "Yes, of course. Right away."
Twenty minutes later, Derek was inside the private office used for high-value purchases. The total price came to one hundred seventy-eight thousand seven hundred forty-two dollars. Derek didn't negotiate. He didn't blink. He simply opened one of his laptops, logged into a shell account, and executed the transfer.
The funds cleared instantly. The dealership staff suddenly treated him with a level of respect usually reserved for old-money clients and celebrities.
Within thirty minutes of entering the building, Derek was driving out in the AMG 63—its engine growling with raw, controlled power.
But he didn't return to his hotel.
He drove north, cutting through Boston traffic until the city polished sheen gave way to grittier streets. Old warehouses, small bars, pawnshops, and narrow alleyways lined the district known simply as the Northside—a place respectable people avoided unless absolutely necessary.
Derek parked the G-Wagon in front of a dimly lit bar with faded signage. The door was painted black, and the windows were tinted so heavily one could barely see inside. This was not a tourist bar. This was a place where favors were traded quietly and problems disappeared without paperwork.
When Derek entered, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke washed over him. The interior was nearly empty except for a massive man wiping down the counter. His shoulders were broad enough to block half the bar. He had a shaved head, thick beard, and arms the size of tree trunks.
The man looked up, scowling. "Closed," he said in a heavy Russian accent. "Come back tomorrow."
Derek smiled faintly and took a seat at a corner table anyway. He adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, opened a folded newspaper, and began to read as if he hadn't heard a thing.
The bartender slammed the cloth onto the counter. "I said closed," he repeated, louder this time. "You deaf or stupid?"
Derek lowered the newspaper just enough for his green eyes to meet the man's cold stare.
In perfect Russian, he replied, "Я хочу поговорить с человеком, который здесь всем управляет."
—I want to speak to the man in charge.
The shift was instantaneous.
The bartender froze.
His posture stiffened, and for a moment his expression flickered from irritation to surprise, then to something more cautious. Very few people walked into this bar asking to meet "the man in charge," and even fewer said it in fluent Russian.
The large man stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he studied Derek more carefully.
"Who sent you?" he asked in Russian, voice quieter now.
Derek folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside. "No one sent me. But I have business. Important business. Your boss will want to hear it."
The bartender exhaled slowly, assessing the calmness in Derek's voice, the expensive clothes, the confident posture, the lack of fear. This wasn't some kid wandering in by accident. This was someone who came with intent.
"Wait here," the man grunted.
He disappeared into a back hallway, leaving Derek alone in the dim bar. Derek stayed relaxed, gently tapping a finger against the wooden table in a slow, steady rhythm.
Everything was falling into place.
He had left Harvard behind.
He had secured his wealth.
He had started the legal war with Reindeer Logistics.
Now came the next phase—one that required connections not found in boardrooms or law firms.
Connections that operated in the shadows.
A minute later, the bartender returned.
"The boss will see you," he said, his tone respectful now. "Follow me."
Derek stood, smoothing his jacket.
The next door he walked through would determine the shape of the empire he was about to build.
And he walked in without hesitation.
Derek sat in the small back office, the door clicking shut behind him as the large bartender left. The room was dim, lit by a single desk lamp whose yellow glow spread across cracked wood and old papers. A faint haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
Across from him sat a man with cold eyes and a face carved from stone—Alexei Ivanovich. He wasn't large like the bartender, but there was a quiet, lethal sharpness about him. The kind of sharpness belonging to men who had survived bloody winters and worse decisions.
They stared at each other for almost a full minute, neither speaking, each weighing the other like predators meeting in neutral territory.
Finally, Alexei broke the silence.
"Кто ты?"
Who are you?
Derek met his gaze without flinching. "I need five keys," he replied calmly. "Five kilos of coke."
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Alexei's hand slid under the desk, and Derek heard the unmistakable metallic click of a gun being drawn. The Russian lifted a matte-black pistol and pointed it directly at Derek's forehead.
"You think this funny?" Alexei growled. "FBI? DEA? Undercover little rat?"
Derek chuckled—an amused, almost bored sound.
Instead of answering, he slowly stood.
Alexei tensed, finger brushing the trigger.
Derek didn't reach for a weapon. He simply began removing his clothes—first the jacket, then his shirt, then his shoes and slacks—folding them neatly before tossing them out of the office door.
Soon he stood in nothing but dark boxer briefs, the muscles he had built over six weeks defined under the dim light.
He raised his hands slightly, palms open.
"Достаточно искренне?" he asked in fluent Russian.
"Sincere enough for you?"
Alexei lowered the gun a fraction. Derek could see calculations running behind the man's eyes—risk, opportunity, danger.
"This is not for resale," Derek continued, switching back to English. "Not for parties. Not for sniffing in nightclubs. It's for something more."
Alexei watched him carefully. "Explain."
Derek gave him a piece of paper with a location and very precise instructions—delivery method, timing, handling, everything down to the route.
"And the payment?" Alexei asked.
Derek rattled off a sequence of numbers—an access code for a numbered offshore account.
"Check it," Derek said.
Alexei opened a laptop, typed the sequence, and his eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly when he saw the deposit: one hundred ten thousand dollars.
No negotiation. No hesitation.
Alexei leaned back. "You are either insane," he said calmly, "or you are something else entirely."
Derek stepped back into his pants and began dressing again. "Just a man with money," he replied. "And a plan."
When he was fully dressed, he nodded once, opened the office door, and left without another word.
Alexei didn't stop him.
The next evening, Boston police dispatch received an anonymous tip from a disguised voice. The caller reported that a man was transporting a large quantity of narcotics in a silver Porsche 911, license plate given clearly and confidently.
The responding officers found the car within minutes—parked at an intersection near Cambridge, engine still warm. They pulled it over without difficulty. The driver was not inside; the car seemed abandoned. But standard procedure required a search.
In the trunk, wrapped cleanly in brown packaging, they found five bricks of cocaine.
The vehicle was registered to Chad Powers.
The arrest warrant went out within the hour.
And somewhere in a quiet hotel room, Derek Morgan set his phone down and smiled faintly to himself.
One brick at a time, Chad's world was beginning to crumble.