The table is a three seater: to my right, Antaro; to my left, Mr. Graham, the competitor my father and I agreed to do a sit down with.
Antaro never leaves Kingston. Ever. For anything. But every once in a while, if a sum fi stir a bit of turmoil, him reconsider him firm position.
I don't want to be here either. Right now, I'd rather be upstairs with Chayanne, fucking her or just listening to her talk for hours.
Yet, here we are. . .
Graham is a fat load of shit. Sitting across from me, him look like smaddy who swear dem have e upper hand. Pity this man neevn know how him play right into mi hands. . .
"I can come to a settlement," he says. "A sum of twenty million USD could make me consider telling my Board to reevaluate the plan to buy three of your vineyards."
As much as mi waa look pon this man like him just tell mi bout mi madda, mi keep mi calm. Afta me neva tek intimidation from no man.
Mi tek a sip from the glass before me. Mm, tha bartender deh drop dung pon e Martini. Glass back on the table, mi ask Graham, "Are you sure this is the route you want to take?"
"Well. . . unless you have an higher offer, I don't see why not," he cheekily states.
Antaro is quietly watching the interaction, eager to see the look on Graham face when I play our cards.
"You're prioritizing the wrong thing for a man whose son is missing," I say.
Fi a second, mi watch him face move from ego, to shock, to stoic. This is a man going through many emotions - both the love he has for his son and the sadness that he has to keep the disappearance of the bastard on the low.
Afta a next satisfying sip from the drink, mi ask Graham, "Tell me, Mr. Graham, how many times have you covered up the instances where yu wasteman son just cudn tek 'No.' fi an answer?"
Graham looks petrified.
Tell yu - him can try diminish Welsh's investments, but dis man neva know seh my money longer and bring me friends ina much higher places.
Any secret weh a man feel seh bury two twos dat excavate.
"Yu doh know wa yaa chat bout, bwoy," he hisses.
"But I do," I say with a sarcastic grin. "That fucker is dead. And if yu waa keep the wasteman far from yu bizniz like yu manage ova all these years, back off from e vineyard dem. Or. . . do as you please," I straighten my jacket and relax into the chair.
Sweating, he tugs at the collar of his shirt. "What's the catch?"
"Then mi nuh must tell every media outlet seh the beach body bag a fi yu?" I raise a brow and almost laugh. "Did you think I'd give you a pass? Come on, Graham. You know there are two things I don't play about. Help me, will you?" I hold up a mocking finger.
"Your money-"
"Exactly."
Him grit him teeth and start fume. Looking pon mi fadda, him angrily seh, "Tell yu boy doh fuck wid me, Antaro."
"Yow," Mi sit up and knock the table wid mi knuckle twice. Him attention draw back to me. "Look pon my face when yaa address who in charge."
Defeated, he sighs. He understands the backlash he would face if the public knows that he covered up every unwanted action of his disgusting son.
And as much as mi cya stand him, Antaro raise mi right: doh fuck nobody fucking gyal pickney unless she seh she want it.
Accepting seh him cudn win, Graham guarantee seh him company will back off. With that, he leaves us.
The proud voice a Antaro come from beside me, "You'll do well as Welsh's CEO."
And I'm about to do better.
All mi need fi do a link Rush, and fuck over Graham's reputation and, in turn, his company.
I hate when people try to one-up me.
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