Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs
Chapter 52: The Three Vultures

Chapter 52: The Three Vultures

The Predators’ Den: Forty-Second Floor, Manhattan

The private conference room overlooked the city like a throne room for financial gods. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a perfect view of the lesser mortals scurrying through the streets below, completely unaware that their economic fates were being decided in rooms exactly like this one.

Three men sat around a table that cost more than most people’s cars, each nursing glasses of Clase Azul Reposado tequila that ran eight hundred dollars a bottle. But they weren’t here for business yet—that would come later, after they’d properly celebrated their latest conquest.

Vincent Castellano adjusted his Brioni suit and leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips. At fifty-nine, he’d orchestrated more corporate massacres than a war criminal, and he wore each victory like a badge of honor. His silver hair was perfectly styled, and his dead eyes suggested he’d killed companies the way other men stepped on insects.

This was the kind of predator who makes Gordon Gekko look like a choir boy.

Dmitri Volkov swirled his tequila thoughtfully, savoring both the liquor and the anticipation of what was to come.

The forty-six-year-old private equity vulture had a reputation for acquiring family businesses and burning them to the ground for profit. His accent carried traces of his Eastern European heritage, but his capacity for financial cruelty was purely Wall Street.

Antonio Rivera was the youngest at forty-one, but his expertise in media manipulation and character assassination made him the most dangerous. He could destroy a CEO’s life with a single leaked photograph and rebuild public opinion just as quickly if someone paid him enough blood money.

"Gentlemen," Vincent began, raising his glass with mock solemnity, "to William Bob Thompson. May the old bastard rot in hell, and may his timing continue to be fucking perfect."

They clinked glasses with the reverence of funeral attendees who were secretly celebrating the inheritance.

"I have to admit," Dmitri said, his voice carrying genuine admiration, "when I heard about his heart attack, I actually got hard. The timing couldn’t have been more beautiful if we’d arranged it ourselves."

Antonio laughed, the sound sharp and predatory. "Trust me, if we could have arranged it, I would have suggested something more... creative. Maybe a scandal involving underage prostitutes first, then the heart attack during the media shitstorm."

"Careful, Tony," Vincent warned with amusement. "That’s the kind of thinking that gets people disappeared."

"Speaking of disappearing," Dmitri said, his eyes glinting with malicious pleasure, "remember what happened to that journalist who was investigating our Miami acquisition?"

"Such a tragic car accident," Antonio replied with mock sympathy. "Brake failure on a mountain road. Could happen to anyone who doesn’t mind their own fucking business."

Vincent nodded approvingly. "The important lesson being that accidents happen to people who interfere with profitable endeavors."

They drank to that wisdom with the casual brutality of men who’d crossed lines that decent people couldn’t even imagine.

"But enough reminiscing," Vincent continued, settling into his chair like a king preparing to hold court. "Let’s talk about our inheritance. Quantum Tech is hemorrhaging money after that cybersecurity breach, and now with daddy dearest feeding worms, we’re looking at an eight-billion-dollar company being managed by..."

"A spoiled cunt who couldn’t manage a fucking lemonade stand," Dmitri finished with vicious satisfaction. "Charlotte Thompson, MBA from Harvard and master’s in computer science from Stanford. Very impressive credentials."

"Impressive and completely worthless," Antonio added, pulling out his tablet like a prosecutor presenting evidence. "Because we all know exactly how the little princess earned those degrees."

Vincent’s smile turned predatory. "Twelve million for a new library wing at Harvard the year before her acceptance. Eight million in ’research grants’ to Stanford during her application period. Twenty million dollars to buy her qualifications, and the stupid fuck still couldn’t purchase actual competence."

Dmitri activated his tablet’s projector, filling the wall with financial documents. "The beautiful part is that we have documentation proving she never attended more than thirty percent of her classes. Hired other students for coursework, exams, even her thesis papers."

"Speaking of our dear Charlotte’s competence," Antonio said, his voice taking on the tone of someone about to share particularly delicious gossip, "have you seen the footage from last month’s board meeting?"

Vincent’s eyes lit up like a serial killer reminiscing about his favorite murder. "The presentation disaster?"

"The fucking masterpiece," Antonio corrected, activating his own projector.

What followed was four minutes of corporate humiliation so complete it transcended embarrassment and entered the realm of performance art. Charlotte Thompson, heiress to an eight-billion-dollar technology empire, stood before a room of seasoned executives attempting to discuss cloud computing while clearly having no idea what those words meant.

She confused "bandwidth" with "broadband," called cybersecurity protocols "computer safety things," and when asked about artificial intelligence development, she delivered a rambling response about how "smart computers are super important for making things more... smart."

"My personal favorite," Vincent said, pausing the video, "is when she tried to explain blockchain technology and described it as ’digital money chains that make transactions more... chained together.’"

The three men erupted in laughter that echoed through the conference room like demons celebrating a fresh soul.

"The board members’ faces," Dmitri wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "You can literally watch them calculating how fast they can dump their stock positions before this retard destroys everything."

"But wait," Antonio said, raising his hand theatrically, "there’s fucking more."

He revealed additional documents with the flourish of a magician performing his finale. "Our sources at Harvard and Stanford have finally confirmed the final draft that Charlotte’s academic records are completely fabricated."

"How fabricated are we speaking and how better than we already know?" Vincent asked, leaning forward with the focus of a shark sensing blood.

"Final grades altered after submission. Professor recommendations that were never written. Examination scores that don’t match the actual test papers on file. The bitch literally bought everything except a functioning brain."

Dmitri leaned back with satisfaction. "How much evidence do we have? Better be better than..."

"Enough to destroy her completely," Antonio replied with professional pride. "Original test papers showing failing grades. Email chains between Bob’s lawyers and university administrators. Bank transfer records linking donations directly to grade changes."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Vincent breathed, though whether from shock or admiration was unclear. "The old man really did buy her everything."

"Everything except intelligence," Dmitri reminded them. "Which brings us to our current opportunity."

Vincent stood and walked to the window, his reflection ghostlike against the glass. "Quantum Tech is wounded, bleeding, and now led by someone who couldn’t successfully operate a fucking McDonald’s. The question is: how do we position ourselves to catch it when it crashes?"