The name on the screen is Constantin Marre.
I know the way I know the structural integrity of a building I’ve lived inside without ever seeing its foundations. Not from direct contact, but from the way everything else has been arranged around it for years. Constantin Marre does not appear in public records, financial filings, or news cycles. He exists in absence, in the way powerful people lower their voices when certain conversations begin.
I have heard his name only once, when I was seventeen. A man visited our home, stayed two hours in my father’s study, and left without being introduced. My father came out afterward and poured a drink with unsteady hands.
Constantin Marre is not Eastern Seaboard distribution.
He is what Eastern Seaboard distribution answers to.
I stare at the name
