Chapter 4: The Reverse Gambit

Chapter 4: The Reverse Gambit

The restaurant where Silas Croft held court was the antithesis of Marco’s La Lanterna. It was a cavern of marble and gold leaf, where the clinking of cutlery was muted by thick carpets and the hushed, obsequious whispers of the waitstaff. It was a place designed to make men of immense wealth feel like gods, and lesser men feel like insects.

Marco Rossi felt like the smallest of insects.

“This is suicide, Leo,” he whispered, his hands clammy as they stood outside the grand entrance. He could feel the stares of the valets, could feel the weight of his simple, clean clothes in a world of bespoke suits. “He’ll destroy us. He’ll laugh in our faces.” The money for his daughter’s surgery felt like a lead weight in his stomach; Croft was about to snatch it away for sport.

“He will laugh,” Leo corrected, his voice a calm, chilling counterpoint to Marco’s panic. He adjusted the knot of his silk tie, his eyes fixed on the restaurant doors. “He will feel powerful. He will feel smarter, stronger, and more in control than he has ever felt before. And that, Marco, is precisely the point.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” Leo said, placing a firm hand on Marco’s shoulder. “All you have to do is follow my lead. No matter what I say, no matter what he says, you stay quiet. Look terrified. That part, at least, shouldn’t be hard to act.”

He guided Marco inside. The maître d’ tried to stop them, his face a mask of polite disdain, but Leo simply stated, “We’re joining Mr. Croft,” with an authority that brooked no argument. He swept past the man and navigated the sea of tables until he saw him.

Silas Croft was not so much sitting at his table as he was colonizing it. He was hunched over a thick slab of rare porterhouse steak, gnawing at it with a feral intensity, a smear of grease shining on his fleshy lips. His massive frame was squeezed into a chair that seemed to groan under the strain. He looked up as they approached, his small, piggy eyes narrowing with annoyance, then widening in cruel amusement.

“Well, well,” Croft grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ignoring his napkin. “Rossi. You’ve got some nerve showing your face here. And you brought a little lawyer with you. How adorable. Did you come to beg for an extension? The answer is no.”

Marco flinched, but Leo’s presence was a rock beside him. Leo didn’t so much as glance at the steak or the opulent surroundings. He looked directly at Croft, his gaze as cold and sharp as a shard of ice.

“Mr. Croft,” Leo began, his tone formal and utterly devoid of emotion. “My name is Leo Vance. I represent Mr. Rossi.” He gestured for Marco to take the empty chair opposite the billionaire, then sat beside him. “We aren't here to beg. We are here to inform you of our intentions regarding my client’s departure from your property.”

Croft let out a short, wheezing laugh. “His departure? I’m well aware of his departure. He’s out on his ear at the end of the month, and he’s leaving all his kitchen equipment behind to pay for the mess he’s leaving.”

“On the contrary,” Leo said, his voice dropping slightly, drawing Croft’s attention like a magnet. “My client is a man of his word. He is prepared to fully comply with every letter of his lease agreement. Specifically, Clause 17b. The clause requiring him to return the premises to their ‘original state.’”

Croft paused, a forkful of bloody steak halfway to his mouth. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Marco, sitting beside Leo, felt his heart hammer against his ribs. This was it. The precipice.

“Therefore,” Leo continued, his words slow and deliberate, “he has secured a contractor. Work will begin Monday morning on the demolition and removal of the 100-ton bank vault currently installed on the property.”

The silence that followed was profound. Croft’s face, ruddy from high blood pressure and wine, went through a rapid series of micro-expressions: confusion, disbelief, a flash of panic, and finally, a surge of pure, unadulterated arrogance. The hook was set.

Leo could almost see the thoughts churning in Croft’s greedy mind. Demolish the vault? The priceless, historic vault that Helvetia Private Bank & Trust is leasing the building for? The centerpiece of my twenty-year, triple-rate deal? Never. The Chameleon’s phantom was doing its work, standing invisibly in the room, whispering sweet nothings about Swiss francs into Croft’s ear.

Croft slammed his fork down, rattling the fine china. “Absolutely not!” he boomed, drawing stares from nearby tables. “You will do no such thing. The vault stays. It’s a historical fixture of the property. It’s not to be touched.”

Marco shrank in his chair, the outburst everything he had feared. But Leo leaned forward, his expression one of polite, professional concern.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Croft,” he said, feigning confusion. “The lease, which your own legal team has confirmed is ironclad, legally obligates my client to remove it. It’s a liability he must dispose of to fulfill his contract. Are you… are you ordering him to breach his lease?”

It was a masterstroke of reverse psychology. He was using Croft’s own weapon—the unbreakable lease—and turning it back on him. Croft saw it as a desperate, transparent legal trick. He saw a pissant lawyer trying to squirm out of a losing position by creating a paradox. He felt a surge of triumphant genius.

“Don’t play games with me, you little shark,” Croft sneered, pointing a thick, sausage-like finger at Leo. “I don’t give a damn what the lease says. I am the owner of the building, and I am telling you, that vault is not going anywhere. It is an integral part of the building’s commercial and historical value.”

He was parroting the exact logic the Chameleon had fabricated for Helvetia. He was defending the value of an object that, just yesterday, he had considered worthless scrap metal he could use for extortion. It was perfect.

Leo leaned back, letting out a heavy, theatrical sigh of defeat. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the picture of a man who had played his last card and lost. Marco watched him, his terror slowly giving way to a dawning, heart-stopping awe.

“Well, Mr. Croft, if that’s your final word, you put my client in an impossible position,” Leo said, his voice laced with frustration. “He is legally required to remove the vault, and you are expressly forbidding him from doing so. He could be sued by you either way.”

He let the supposed dilemma hang in the air for a moment before delivering the final, decisive thrust.

“For his own legal protection, then,” Leo said, looking Croft directly in the eye, “he will require a formal notice from you. In writing. On your company letterhead. A letter stating that you, the landlord, are officially forbidding him from removing the vault, and that you assume all legal and financial responsibility for it remaining on the premises after his tenancy ends.”

Croft’s eyes lit up with predatory glee. A letter? A written confession of his victory? A document he could use to prove Rossi had failed to meet the lease terms, while also getting exactly what he wanted for his new, lucrative tenant? It was more than a win; it was a humiliation he could frame and hang on his wall.

“Done,” Croft boomed, a triumphant, greasy smile spreading across his face. He felt like a king swatting away a fly. “My assistant will have the letter messengered to your office by the end of the day. A binding, legal declaration. Now, get out of my sight. Both of you. You’re spoiling my lunch.”

Leo stood, giving a small, deferential nod. He guided the shell-shocked Marco away from the table. As they walked through the opulent dining room, Marco’s legs felt weak, but not from fear. It was from the vertigo of watching a magician at work. He looked at Leo, whose face was once again a calm, unreadable mask.

The leviathan had been hooked. Now, with his own arrogant hand, he was about to sign the document that would gaff him and drag him from the water. The trap hadn't just been sprung; the victim had just eagerly volunteered to lock it himself.