The Geneva headquarters of Obsidian Freight was a monument to the sterile, arrogant minimalism preferred by the new generation of shadow capitalists. Located on the top floor of a gleaming glass spire overlooking the placid, deep blue waters of Lake Geneva, the office was a stark contrast to the gritty, heavy industrial reality of the shipping logistics it supposedly managed.
Julian Cross sat behind a desk carved from a single slab of flawless white Carrara marble. He was thirty-five, sharp-featured, and wore an aggressively tailored Brioni suit that cost more than most of his dockworkers made in a decade. He held a crystal tumbler of sixty-year-old Macallan scotch in his left hand, gently swirling the amber liquid.
He was smiling. It was the smile of a man who believed he had successful
