On the thirty-second floor of the Star Ring Building, Wesley sat in a soft chair by the window with his arms folded. A bottle of premium red wine rested beside him, and the crimson liquid in the goblet gently swayed.
This bespectacled, refined man was impeccably dressed and mild-mannered. Whether in bearing or appearance, he perfectly fit the definition of an elite professional.
This towering skyscraper on Eighth Avenue was regarded as a "holy land" by many gang members. The only place that had once held the same status was the residence of the previous Black Emperor, Kingpin.
Rumors circulating through Hell's Kitchen painted James Wesley as a sinister and cunning evil mastermind, a man full of schemes. Anyone who looked into it closely could hear all sorts of details: how Wesley had painstakingly become Kingpin's legal adviser, then steadily infiltrated the core of the criminal empire, waiting until the time was ripe before striking in one blow, overthrowing the Black Emperor and ascending the throne of power himself.
The various versions were passed around as idle gossip in late-night bars and street corners. Yet even if Wesley stood right in front of them, these people would never connect the evil mastermind from those stories with the refined man before their eyes.
"Ramon is dead."
Remembering the report from his subordinates, Wesley frowned deeply. That mediocre Rand Corporation executive had been the puppet he had chosen.
Ramon possessed no talent worth praising, but he was obedient and honest—a loyal dog worth training. He had never stood out at Rand Corporation, so his sudden ascent to a high position was bound to provoke the dissatisfaction of many. Even if those old men on the Board of Directors knew who stood behind him, they would likely still be indignant.
Isolating a puppet