The Wolf in the Gray Uniform

The formal conference room on the top floor of the Costa corporate headquarters was bathed in the harsh, gray light of a rainy Chicago afternoon.

Heinrich Vance sat across the mahogany table, flanked by two stony-faced corporate lawyers.

Vance spoke in clipped, formal English designed to intimidate, hinting that his syndicate could easily take their business to rival families if the Costa terms weren't softened.

Simon would have stammered, translating the threat literally and sending Dante into a defensive posture.

Harper sat quietly to Dante’s left, her fingers resting lightly on an open leather notebook.

When Vance finished his pitch, Dante turned to Harper.

“Well?”

Harper didn't look at the German negotiators. She looked directly at Dante.

“He’s bluffing,” she said in a clear, conversational tone that carried across the entire room. “His syndicate's rail contracts in Hamburg expire next month, and their logistics partner just filed for bankruptcy. If he walks away from our table, his own board will vote him out by Friday.”

Vance’s face turned the color of spoiled milk.

His lawyers immediately leaned in, whispering frantically in German.

Vance switched to German, his voice rising in panic as he demanded to know who had given her that information.

Harper replied in fluent, flawless High German, adopting the precise legal cadence used by corporate arbitrators in Frankfurt. She told him that in financial intelligence, knowing your opponent’s bankruptcy filings was standard procedure—and suggested they skip the theater and return to the original four-percent concession.

Vance stared at her for ten long seconds.

Then he exhaled sharply, leaned back in his chair, and extended his hand across the table.

“Done,” Vance muttered.