Chapter Two-Hundred Eighty-Four: Executive Precision

Chapter 284

Executive Precision

Steam curled lazily toward the bathroom ceiling, carrying the crisp scents of eucalyptus and cedarwood before fading against the glass. Jordi stepped out of the walk-in shower, sweeping damp strands of vivid purple hair away from his eyes as he wrapped a heavy white towel securely around his waist. Through the cracked door, the low hum of synth-pop from the radio filtered in from the kitchen, accompanied by the sizzle of a hot pan and the comforting, unmistakable aroma of toasted nori, savory miso, and grilled fish.

Jordi moved into his bedroom. Preparing for Donati, Inc. was a ritual of precision. He pulled on a pair of fine, black sheer socks, smoothing them up to his calves before reaching for a freshly pressed lilac dress shirt. The tailored fabric was light and crisp against his skin. He fastened each mother-of-pearl button with practiced ease, then slid into trousers from a bespoke, Italian-cut black suit. The lines were razor-sharp, accentuating his lean frame and tapering cleanly over his feet.

Standing before the mirrored vanity, he draped a rich purple silk tie around his collar. His fingers wove an immaculate Windsor knot, pulling it snug against the lilac fabric before adjusting the lapels of his black suit jacket. A subtle gold tie bar clicked into place. Finally, Jordi picked up a heavy glass decanter from the tray. He spritzed the amber-tinted cologne twice over his throat and wrists—a sophisticated, smoky blend of bergamot, sandalwood, and leather that commanded respect the moment he stepped into an executive boardroom.

Checking his reflection, he flashed a brief, satisfied smirk, then made his way down the hall toward the kitchen.

Jaxon stood by the stovetop, a vivid burst of flame against the sleek modern counters. Draped in a loose, crimson silk robe emblazoned with a coiled golden dragon, his massive red-black hair was tied back, though wild strands still framed his face. Barefoot and swaying gently to the music, he carefully plated a pair of lightly charred salmon fillets beside a steaming bowl of rice and two bowls of miso soup.

Jordi stepped behind him. He gently rested a hand on the soft red silk at Jaxon’s waist, leaning down to press a warm kiss just below the curve of his ear.

Jordi: “Smell amazing, Jiro…”

A slight shiver ran through Jaxon at the sound of his name, a soft flush rising along his cheekbones. He leaned his head back against Jordi’s shoulder, looking up through his bangs with bright, affectionate eyes.

Jordi didn’t let go, instead tightening his embrace slightly, his hands resting easily against the smooth silk wrapping Jaxon’s waist. He rested his chin against Jaxon’s shoulder, watching the morning light catch the gold threads of the coiled dragon on the sleeve.

Jordi: “Before I head into the office today…”

He murmured, his voice dipping into a low, affectionate tone right near Jaxon’s ear.

Jordi: “I’m putting in a call to Elias. A family friend.”

Jaxon tilted his head slightly, leaning into the warmth of the touch, curious dark eyes glancing back toward him.

Jaxon: “Elias? What’s the job again?”

Jordi: “I’m having him draw up the plans to build an extension onto the house.”

He said softly, the subtle seriousness of his protective elder-brother nature showing.

Jordi: “A proper bedroom and bathroom suite. For Lena.”

He let the thought settle between them in the quiet kitchen. Jordi had made sure their life here was solid, but having his sister close—with her own private space designed just for her—was something he had been quietly mapping out in his head for a few days. He didn’t want her near their abusive grandfather.

Jaxon turned fully within the circle of Jordi’s arms, the crimson silk shifting across his shoulders. The playful tease in his expression softened into something genuinely fond, his hand reaching up to adjust the lapel of Jordi's black Italian suit lightly.

Jaxon: “Did you two make amends?”

He asked softly. Jordi inhaled sharply.

Jordi: “I will get to that point. I will make it happen.”

He said, his dark eyes softening as he held Jaxon close for just a second longer before the demands of the Donati boardroom called him away.

Jordi: “And once Elias gives me the estimate today, we’ll make sure she picks out whatever colors she wants for the walls. Knowing her, it will be pink.”

He chuckled. Jaxon pursed his lips, wanting to be happy for Jordi, but he knew Lena was still angry with her older brother.

Jaxon slipped out from Jordi’s hold to finish plating, his movements quick and practiced. He arranged the ceramic bowls and dishes across the polished dining table, setting out the grilled salmon with its crisp, savory skin, bowls of steaming white rice, pickled radish, and fragrant miso soup. Beside his own place, he set down a delicate porcelain cup of pale, floral jasmine tea, its soothing steam curling upward. For Jordi, he poured a deep, dark mug of black coffee, rich and piping hot.

Jordi pulled out a chair and sat, lifting the heavy ceramic mug to take a slow, appreciative sip. The warmth chased away the last traces of morning haze. He caught Jaxon’s eye over the rim, giving a quiet nod of approval.

Jordi: “Smells incredible, Jiro.”

Jaxon: “Don't just praise it, eat before it gets cold.”

He said with a grin, picking up his chopsticks. He broke off a tender flake of salmon, savoring the bite before taking a gentle sip of his floral tea.

Jaxon: “You’ve got a long day between Demetrio’s demands and sketching blueprints with Elias.”

Jordi broke apart his chopsticks, taking a bite of the fish and rice. Between bites of the savory breakfast and sips of dark roast, the quiet cadence of morning settled over the couple.

Jordi set down his empty coffee mug and stood from the dining table, smoothing the sharp front of his suit jacket. He leaned down to press a quick, parting kiss to Jaxon’s lips, lingering just long enough to catch the scent of jasmine tea before heading for the entryway.

Sitting on the bench by the front door, he slipped his feet into his sleek black leather zip-up boots. He tugged the zippers up smoothly against his sheer black socks, then retrieved his polished leather briefcase from the console table.

Jordi: “I’ll see you this evening, Jiro.”

He called out with a warm smile, stepping out into the crisp morning air.

Jordi slid into the low-slung, tailored driver’s seat and placed his briefcase on the passenger side. He turned the key in the ignition, and the mid-mounted V8 engine barked to life behind him with a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through the chassis. Depressing the clutch, he moved the gearshift into reverse, slinging his right arm over the passenger headrest and looking back as he glided the car down the driveway.

Coming to a halt at the curb, Jordi engaged the clutch, clicked the gated chrome shifter crisply into first gear, and eased onto the throttle. The Ferrari surged forward, humming down the road as he headed to work.

~

The sleek purple Ferrari purred to a stop in Jordi’s reserved stall within the subterranean executive garage of Donati Tower. Jordi stepped out, grabbed his briefcase, locked the car, and headed through the private entrance toward the high-speed elevators.

The chrome doors slid open with a soft chime. Jordi stepped inside, pressed the button for the 64th floor, and felt the familiar, rapid pull of gravity as the car ascended smoothly toward the peak of the tower.

When the doors parted on sixty-four, the executive floor was quiet, pristine, and radiated power.

Jordi adjusted the cuffs of his lilac shirt, letting the razor-sharp cut of his black suit settle as he strode down the hall. Every desk assistant and junior analyst he passed gave a polite, deferential nod—well aware that Jordi held the ear of the most influential man in Palm Tree State.

Jordi raised two knuckles to Demetrio’s door, rapping in a crisp, familiar rhythm before turning the brass handle. He pushed it open and slipped in.

The vast office was enveloped in the warm amber haze of the morning sun, cutting through thick ribbons of blue-gray smoke that drifted lazily toward the high, wood-paneled ceiling. The air was rich and heavy with the scent of aged Cuban tobacco, polished cedar, and the subtle electrical hum inherent to the building that powered all of Palm Tree State.

Behind his desk, Demetrio leaned back in his office chair. He held a thick, smoldering Churchill cigar between two heavy fingers, watching the smoke curl off the glowing cherry tip with half-lidded, calculating eyes. His tailored suit jacket was draped effortlessly over the back of his chair.

Jordi stepped forward with measured, fluid grace, the soles of his polished leather zip-up boots making no sound on the deep Persian rug that anchored the seating area. His posture was impeccably upright, the sharp Italian lines of his black suit jacket falling into place without a single crease, while his purple silk tie caught the light like polished amethyst against the pale lilac of his shirt. Under one arm, he held a sleek leather portfolio containing the morning’s priority filings, utility grid reports, and the private schedule for the Donati board of directors.

Jordi: “Good morning, Demetrio.”

He said smoothly, his tone striking that flawless, razor-thin balance of absolute executive deference and cool, unflappable confidence.

Demetrio took a slow, deliberate pull from the cigar, the ash burning down evenly before he tilted his head up and exhaled a long plume of fragrant smoke toward the tinted glass. His sharp eyes cut toward Jordi, sweeping over his assistant’s immaculate appearance with a faint, satisfied nod.

Demetrio tapped the edge of the cigar against a crystal tray, letting a neat cylinder of gray ash fall away.

Demetrio: “You're prompt, Jordi.”

He murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that could settle a contentious shareholder meeting with a single syllable.

Demetrio: “Tell me the southern substation transfer went through without any theatrics from the municipal board.”

Jordi unzipped his portfolio with a crisp snap of metal and pulled free a single ivory sheet, stepping up to the walnut desk and laying it flat within Demetrio’s reach.

Jordi: “Signed off at midnight, sir. The municipal board yielded the easement rights for the new grid line without a single protest. You have the full briefing here, along with the preliminary figures for the city center upgrade.”

Demetrio leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk, the cigar perched between his knuckles as his gaze scanned the figures.

Demetrio tapped his cigar against the crystal ashtray once more, letting another plume of fragrant blue smoke roll across the desk. With his free hand, he reached into an open manila folder, slid out a thick, bound document bordered in red priority ink, and pushed it across the table toward Jordi.

Demetrio: “Take a look at this.”

He said, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he narrowed his eyes.

Demetrio: “The state energy council slipped in an addendum on the North Shore coastal grid expansion late last night. They’re trying to shift municipal liability onto our shoulders if the summer surge triggers a brownout.”

Reaching into the interior breast pocket of his Italian suit jacket, he withdrew a pair of sleek, black square-framed glasses. With a fluid, practiced motion, he unfolded the temples and slid them onto the bridge of his nose, the clean geometry of the frames sharpening his striking features and drawing focus to his vivid Byzantine eyes.

He leaned forward slightly, resting one hand against the edge of the desk while flipping open the bound packet with the other. The morning light bounced off the square lenses as his gaze flicked down the densely typed legal clauses.

Jordi traced a finger down the fine print of Section 14, his sharp mind immediately deconstructing the bureaucratic language.

Jordi: “They buried it under emergency maintenance contingencies.”

He murmured smoothly, adjusting the frame of his glasses with the tip of an index finger.

Jordi: “Paragraph three specifically redefines ‘unforeseen surges’ as utility negligence rather than regional overconsumption. It’s a clumsy trap, Demetrio.”

A slow, wry smile touched the corner of Demetrio’s mouth behind the veil of smoke, clearly pleased that his assistant had caught the pivot in less than two minutes.

Demetrio: “Draft the counter-stipulation before noon, Jordi. Let them know Donati, Inc. doesn’t pay for the city’s poor planning.”

Jordi: “I’ll have the revised terms on your desk well before the deadline, Demetrio.”

He said, giving a crisp, confident nod.

He closed the leather-bound document with a decisive snap, tucking the folder neatly under his arm. Gathering his portfolio, he straightened his posture, letting the razor-sharp cut of his black suit jacket fall back into tailored alignment. Demetrio offered a brief, approving wave of his hand through the lingering haze of cigar smoke as Jordi turned on his heel.

With smooth, measured strides, Jordi exited the corner sanctum, his leather zip-up boots carrying him quietly across the deep pile of the Persian rug and into the corridor. He passed the quiet hum of the executive bullpen, ignoring the curious glances of passing junior analysts, and made his way to his private office adjacent to the boardroom.

Pushing open the door, Jordi stepped into his personal workspace. He crossed the room to his desk, set down the priority file beside his leather briefcase, and took a seat in the supple leather executive chair. Still wearing his square-framed glasses, Jordi unscrewed the cap of a polished gold fountain pen, pulled a fresh legal pad forward, and went straight to work dissecting the state council’s liability clause.

~

Jordi capped his fountain pen with a sharp, satisfying click and set it down alongside the freshly drafted counter-stipulations. The language was airtight, stripping away the state energy council’s clumsy trap and reinforcing Donati, Inc.’s complete insulation from municipal surge liability. He slipped off his square-framed glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief second before setting the frames on his desk.

Glancing at the heavy gold clock on his wall, he saw he still had twenty minutes before the revised terms needed to land on Demetrio’s desk. It was the perfect window.

Reaching across the desk, Jordi lifted the heavy handset of his sleek executive telephone. He dialed a familiar local number from memory, listening to the rhythmic, mechanical clicks of the line connecting across Pink Top City. After three rings, the call clicked through to a rough, gravelly voice on the other end.

Elias: “Jordi!”

He answered warmly, the background humming with the distinct clatter of a busy drafting workshop and the distant whine of a table saw.

Elias: “I figured you'd be neck-deep in Donati’s empire by this hour.”

Jordi: “Always am, Elias, but I got a personal project that takes priority.”

He said, leaning back into his leather chair and turning slightly to look out over the sunlit skyline sixty-four floors below. The sharp edge of his corporate tone melted into the easy warmth reserved for old family ties.

Jordi: “It’s about the house I put in my name on Juniper Street. I want to commission a proper extension. A full private suite—spacious bedroom, attached bath, plenty of natural light. It’s for Lena.”

On the other end, Elias paused, his tone shifting into genuine approval.

Elias: “A dedicated wing for your sister. That’s a fine move, Jordi. She deserves a first-class setup. What kind of timeline are we looking at?”

Jordi: “As soon as you can draw up the schematics.”

He said, tapping his fingers lightly against the desk.

Jordi: “I want quality materials—no shortcuts. Give me an initial estimate and bring the preliminary blueprints by once they’re drafted. I want to look them over.”

Elias: “Consider it done…”

He said with a chuckle.

Elias: “I’ll swing by Juniper Street later this week to survey the lot line and grade the foundation space.”

Jordi: “Thanks, Elias. Send the paperwork directly to my personal line.”

With a smooth flick of his wrist, Jordi lowered the handset back onto the cradle.

Jordi slid the square-framed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, the polished lenses instantly sharpening the edges of his surroundings into precise clarity. Gathering the heavy leather portfolio containing the revised counter-stipulations, he straightened the tailored lines of his black Italian suit jacket, checked the alignment of his purple silk tie, and strode out of his office.

The sixty-fourth-floor executive corridor was hushed, dominated by the muted hum of climate control and the panoramic glare of the late-morning sun bouncing off the glass towers of Pink Top City. His leather zip-up boots made no sound against the deep runner as he approached the monolithic set of double frosted-glass doors that led into Boardroom Alpha.

With an effortless push, Jordi entered the room.

The space was designed to intimidate. An immense conference table made of mirror-polished Brazilian rosewood ran down the center of the hall, capable of seating thirty people under a recessed ceiling lined with warm, indirect spotlights. At the head of the table, framed by an unobstructed view of the coastal grid lines running toward the horizon, sat Demetrio.

The CEO had stubbed out his cigar, but the air still held the faint, rich aroma of cedar and tobacco smoke. Flanking him were the senior vice presidents of regional distribution, corporate legal counsel, and infrastructure finance—all men in heavy, dark three-piece suits who looked visibly strained by the morning’s bureaucratic impasse with the state energy council.

Demetrio: “Jordi…”

He said, his deep baritone cutting through the low murmur of conversation the second the doors clicked shut. Every head around the table turned in unison.

Demetrio: “Tell me we have leverage.”

Jordi: “We have more than leverage.”

He replied smoothly, walking the length of the table with measured, deliberate grace. The square lenses of his glasses caught the overhead light, giving him an aura of untouchable, calculating composure.

Jordi: “We have the state’s own legal precedent.”

He stopped at Demetrio’s right hand, setting the priority portfolio flat against the gleaming wood. With a deft, rhythmic flick of his fingers, Jordi distributed pristine, laser-printed copies of the counter-stipulation to each executive.

Jordi: “Section fourteen attempted to reclassify regional overconsumption during peak summer surges as utility infrastructure negligence.”

He explained, his voice even, articulate, and completely devoid of doubt. He tapped the revised clause with the tip of his polished gold fountain pen.

Jordi: “I’ve rewritten Subsection C to tether all emergency maintenance liabilities directly to the municipal grid’s outdated transformers. If a brownout occurs under high ambient temperatures, the fault falls squarely on the city council’s deferred maintenance budget from 1984, completely insulating Donati, Inc. from financial penalties or public inquests.”

The senior legal counsel skimmed the text rapidly, his brow furrowing before his eyes widened in quiet astonishment. Across the table, the vice president of distribution let out a low whistle of relief.

Demetrio leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms against the rosewood surface, his sharp eyes devouring Jordi’s redrafted clauses. A slow, predatory grin crept across the older man's face.

Demetrio: “They wanted to play hardball before the coastal expansion broke ground.”

He rumbled, sliding the final copy back into the center of the desk with a firm, decisive tap of his knuckles.

Demetrio: “And you just shut the door in their faces. Outstanding work, Jordi.”

Jordi: “The courier is on standby downstairs to deliver the ratified terms to the council’s legal team before the noon recess…”

He said, stepping back into an easy, upright posture, completely unfazed by the praise.

Jordi: “They will either sign by one o’clock, or Palm Tree State’s grid expansion pauses under municipal default. The choice is theirs.”

Demetrio nodded once, an emphatic signal of total executive sign-off.

Demetrio: “Send the runner. Gentlemen, the agenda moves to the third-quarter turbine allocations.”

As the board shifted seamlessly into the next order of business, Jordi remained at Demetrio’s side.

The heavy mahogany double doors sealed with a pressurized click, shutting out the rest of the tower and locking the sixty-fourth floor into a cocoon of high-stakes corporate momentum.

Demetrio leaned back, steepling his thick fingers as the overhead track lights caught the gold of his signet ring.

Demetrio: “Let’s talk turbine allocations.”

He commanded, his gravelly voice dropping like an anchor over the rosewood table.

Demetrio: “The coastal grid expansion demands another forty megawatts by late autumn. Vice President Vance, tell me your team secured the delivery schedule from Mitsubishi Heavy Industries.”

Vance, a nervous man whose graying comb-over gleamed with sweat under the lights, fumbled with a stack of ledger sheets.

Vance: “They’re... well, Mr. Donati, the maritime shipping freight rates out of Naniwato spiked last Thursday. Their representative wants an extra seven percent on delivery insurance before clearing harbor customs, or they hold the shipments at port.”

A tense, suffocating silence fell across the boardroom. Demetrio’s eyes narrowed into slits, his jaw setting hard enough to crack a walnut.

Demetrio: “Seven percent on a contract already negotiated and locked six months ago?”

Before Vance could flounder into an apology, Jordi stepped smoothly into the gap. His square-framed glasses caught the soft glow of the recessed fixtures as he pulled a slim, blue-tabbed dossier from under his arm and laid it crisply beside Vance's trembling hands.

Jordi: “The Naniwato maritime freight contract falls under the 1985 Pan-Pacific Trade Accord, Section 9.”

He stated smoothly, his voice cool, level, and carrying effortless authority.

Jordi: “Any mid-transit rate adjustment made without forty-five days’ written notice directly voids the carrier's port exclusivity rights in Palm Tree State.”

Jordi tapped his finger against the second page, drawing every executive’s gaze like iron filings to a magnet.

Jordi: “We don’t pay the seven percent. We remind their regional director that Donati, Inc. holds the operating license for the deep-water cranes at Pink Top Harbor. If our turbines don’t clear dock on the scheduled date, their cargo freighters sit outside the breakwater burning bunker fuel until November.”

A collective breath was released around the table. Vance looked up at Jordi as if he had just parted the ocean, while the vice president of finance frantically scribbled the note onto his legal pad.

Demetrio let out a short, approving bark of a laugh that cut right through the tension. He slammed an open palm down onto the polished rosewood, rattling the crystal water glasses.

Demetrio: “Call Naniwato during their morning session.”

He ordered Vance, a razor-thin grin slicing across his features.

Demetrio: “Read them Jordi’s exact words. If they whine, tell them to call the governor, who happens to enjoy having air conditioning in his mansion.”

The meeting pivoted into logistics and load distribution with ruthless efficiency. For the next hour, they dissected charts, mapped regional power projections, and aggressively reallocated capital budgets. Through every debate and sudden complication, Jordi moved around the perimeter of the room like a ghost of pure precision—handing Demetrio handwritten notes on key balance figures, refilling the crystal tumbler at the CEO’s elbow with club soda, and quietly steering the course of the empire with a single raised brow or an impeccably timed interjection.

By the time the antique mantle clock chimed one in the afternoon, the board members were exhausted, their ties loosened and collars wilted under the sheer weight of the decisions made. Only Jordi stood as crisp as when he had walked in, his black Italian suit immaculate, his lilac shirt uncreased, and not a single lock of vivid purple hair out of place.

Demetrio pushed back his burgundy leather chair, signaling the end of the session.

Demetrio: “That’s enough blood for one morning. Get those contracts out, gentlemen. Jordi—walk with me.”

The frosted-glass doors parted, and the pair stepped out into the quiet expanse of the sixty-fourth-floor corridor. Demetrio clasped his hands behind his broad back, his heavy, deliberate strides matching Jordi’s smooth, measured pace as they headed toward the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the southern horizon.

Demetrio: “You handled Vance’s mess before he could even panic.”

He rumbled, casting a sideways glance at Jordi.

Demetrio: “That Naniwato leverage was sharp, Jordi. Clean.”

Jordi: “It’s about knowing which levers actually turn the machine.”

He replied, his tone even and understated. He kept the leather portfolio tucked neatly beneath his arm.

Jordi: “Mitsubishi wants the freight margin, but they can’t afford dock demurrage at Pink Top Harbor. It was a bluff to test the board’s resolve.”

Demetrio: “And the board folded like cheap linen until you stepped in.”

He snorted, shaking his head with mild amusement. He came to a stop near the corner overlook, gazing down at the sprawling network of high-voltage transmission lines stretching toward the sun-bleached hills of Palm Tree State.

Demetrio: “Too many men in this building know how to read a balance sheet, but very few know how to hold power. You do.”

Demetrio turned to face him fully, his piercing gaze steady.

Demetrio: “Take the afternoon to wrap the municipal signatures. Once the couriers confirm the delivery, you’re off the clock. I don’t need my best asset burning out before the autumn expansion breaks ground.”

Jordi: “Understood, sit. I’ll make sure the council’s countersignatures are logged in your private ledger before I leave.”

He said, offering a crisp, polite tilt of his head.

Demetrio: “Good man.”

He gave a firm, approving pat to Jordi’s shoulder before turning back toward his office.

Demetrio: “Enjoy your evening, Jordi.”

Jordi: “Thank you, sir.”

Jordi watched the patriarch retreat down the marble hallway, the heavy mahogany doors of the executive suite clicking shut behind him.

Blair stood in front of Jordi. He wore a Batman shirt, blue shorts, white calf socks, and red sneakers.

Blair: “Hey, fatso! I overheard you on the phone. Making a room for your retarded sister? The butterfly retard!”

Blair flapped his arms as if he was imitating a butterfly. The corridor’s quiet air instantly turned frigid, charged with a subtle, crackling static that raised Blair’s hair.

Jordi stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t flinch, nor did his expression break into overt rage, but the effortless warmth from earlier vanished entirely. Slowly, deliberately, he turned around to face Blair.

Behind the sharp, black frames of his glasses, Jordi’s Byzantine eyes narrowed into cold, lethal points. For a split second, a faint, microscopic arc of violet lightning flickered across the gold links of his left cuff before he clamped absolute mental discipline over his power.

He adjusted the lapel of his tailored black Italian jacket, closing the distance between them with slow, measured steps. The sharp click of his leather boots on the polished floor sounded like a countdown. Jordi stood tall, letting the full weight of his presence tower over the younger man, entirely unimpressed by the brat’s loud shirt and juvenile sneer.

Jordi: “Blair…”

He said, his voice dropping into a razor-smooth, chillingly quiet register that echoed off the frosted glass.

Jordi: “Between destroying Sylvia’s memories, insulting my sister, and acting like an entitled fucking shit, my patience for you is running VERY thin!”

He took one more deliberate step forward, forcing Blair to tilt his head up if he wanted to hold his gaze.

Jordi: “Your grandfather keeps this company running because he commands respect and knows who actually keeps his lights on…”

He continued, every syllable cutting with surgical precision.

Jordi: “You, on the other hand, are standing here slinging mud toward my sister, who is the sweetest, kindest person you will ever meet. If you ever speak about my sister again—with that word, or even a whisper of disrespect—I won’t just make sure your grandfather cuts your allowance to zero. I’ll make sure you don’t set foot on this land again.”

Jordi stared down at him for a long, suffocating moment, the air heavy with an unspoken threat that made the fluorescent lights overhead hum just a fraction louder.

Blair: “What’s going on with the lights?!”

Jordi paused. His powers were not working for a bit, and he wondered if they were coming back.

Blair: “FINE! Maybe something bad will happen to Jiro!”

He huffed.

The overhead fluorescent panels flickered violently, buzzing at a pitch that vibrated against the glass walls. Jordi closed the space between them in a blur, pinning Blair against the marble pillar before the younger man could even flinch.

Jordi’s hand came up, grasping Blair’s gray collar tightly enough to pull him up onto the balls of his red sneakers. Behind the square lenses of Jordi’s glasses, his eyes were practically incandescent, shimmering with raw, lethal fury. A spiderweb of vivid violet electricity danced across Jordi’s knuckles, crackling softly with a low, menacing hiss that Blair could feel warming the fabric of his shirt.

Jordi: “Listen to me very carefully…”

He whispered, his voice dropping into a register far more terrifying than a shout.

Jordi: “You don’t mention Jiro’s name. You don’t look toward Darker Desires. You don’t even think about Juniper Street. You stay the fuck away from my boyfriend and my sister.”

The violet static jumped between Jordi’s rings, a sharp, snapping arc brushing just millimeters from Blair’s throat, making the hair on the back of the younger man’s neck stand straight on end.

Jordi: “Demetrio runs this city’s power grid, Blair…”

He breathed, his gaze burning right through him.

Jordi: “But I am the current. If you ever so much as cross paths with either of them, your grandfather won’t even find out where you went. Are we completely, perfectly clear?”

Blair: “LET ME GO, YOU FATTY!”

He sobbed.

The shrill insult barely left Blair’s mouth before a sharp snap of static popped against his collar, the tiny violet shock stinging enough to shut him up mid-yelp.

Jordi shoved Blair back against the smooth marble with dismissive, effortless force, letting go so abruptly that the younger man stumbled, catching his balance awkwardly on squeaking red sneakers.

The violet sparks playing along Jordi’s knuckles dissolved into thin air, though the corridor’s lights gave one final, warning flicker before settling back into a sterile white hum. Jordi didn't even have an elevated pulse. He reached up with one smooth motion, straightening the razor-sharp lapels of his black Italian jacket, then used two fingers to nudge his square-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

He looked down at Blair with cold, unadulterated disgust—the exact look an executive gives a spilled cup of cheap coffee on an expensive rug.

Jordi: “Your insults are as pathetic as your threats, Blair…”

He said, his voice returning to a smooth, chillingly polite cadence that dripped with condescension.

Jordi: “Run along before Demetrio hears you throwing a tantrum like a toddler. And pray to whatever luck you have left that I don't decide to mention this conversation to him over lunch. Lord knows you’re pushing his patience as well with how you spit on the person who sacrificed herself to make sure you’re still walking.”

Jordi picked up his leather portfolio from where it rested, turning his back entirely on Demetrio’s grandson. Without granting him another second of attention, he strode away down the marble hallway.

Entering Demetrio’s private sanctum, Jordi walked straight to the concealed wall safe behind the mahogany shelving. He spun the brass tumbler with practiced ease, the heavy door unlatching with a muffled metallic thud. Inside rested the CEO’s personal leather-bound ledger—the private record of every concession, easement, and backroom deal that anchored Palm Tree State’s utility empire.

Jordi carried the ledger to the walnut desk, opening it flat beside the courier’s freshly returned dispatch. The municipal energy council had folded completely under the pressure; their gold-embossed seal and the mayor's executive signature were stamped across the bottom of the counter-stipulations without a single redaction.

Sliding his square-framed glasses slightly down his nose, Jordi took up Demetrio’s personal archival pen. In neat, flowing script, he entered the date, the contract code, and the verified indemnity clauses, logging the countersignatures into the ledger's permanent index. Every detail was accounted for, leaving no loose ends or bureaucratic blind spots for the council to exploit.

He blotted the ink dry, closed the heavy ledger with a firm tap, and returned it to the safe, spinning the dial until the tumblers locked tight. With Demetrio’s power secured on paper, Jordi slipped his glasses from the bridge of his nose, folded the temples with a soft snap, and slid them securely into his jacket’s inner breast pocket. Gathering his leather briefcase, he left the executive suite behind, riding the private elevator down sixty-four floors in tranquil silence.

The subterranean garage was cool and cavernous, the glossy paint of his 1987 purple Ferrari 328 gleaming beneath the overhead fluorescent tubes. Jordi popped the driver’s side door open, placed his briefcase onto the passenger floorboard, and slid into the contoured leather seat.

Turning the key, he let out a slow breath as the mid-mounted V8 engine roared to life behind him, its low, mechanical rumble shaking off the residual tension from the confrontation with Blair. He clicked the chrome shifter into first gear, eased off the clutch, and guided the low-slung sports car up the concrete ramp and out into the afternoon sunlight.