Chapter 411: Get Out Of The Chair

Moretti finally pulled his attention off Lucas and looked at Bennett.

He reached for the cigar on the table, put it between his lips, and took a slow pull. Smoke drifted up as he leaned back in his chair, studying her with the mild recognition of someone confirming an old face.

He knew her.

That part was easy.

The man beside her was another matter entirely. Moretti did not know him from anywhere. No name. No history. Nothing that made him sit up.

"Bennett."

"Good morning," she said. "It’s been a while."

"Yes," Moretti answered. "It has."

Under the politeness, his mind had already finished sorting them.

Bennett bought cars from him, yes. She had been in this building before. But in the world Moretti lived in, that meant very little. He dealt with people who moved serious numbers, collection money, old money, the kind of clients whose requests rearranged schedules. Bennett had never been one of those. She was lower on the list. Respectable enough to walk in. Not important enough to matter much.

So when she came all the way up to this office, he expected the usual.

Another car.

Maybe expensive to normal people.

Simple to him.

He rested the cigar against the ashtray and waited for that request.

Bennett did not give it to him.

"We’re here for the Bugatti Chiron Profilée."

Moretti stopped.

The smoke hung in the air between them. For a second he just looked at her, as if the sentence needed time to land properly.

Then he leaned forward slightly.

"You said you’re looking for the Bugatti Chiron Profilée."

"Yes," Bennett replied. "That’s what we need."

Moretti stared.

Not a short stare. A long one. The kind that came with disbelief.

That name did not belong in a casual morning meeting. Not from her. In his head, the first thought was not purchase. It was content. Maybe she wanted to film around the car. Pose with it. Use the name for attention. Because looking at Bennett, he could not accept that she was the buyer. Not for that car.

He did not feel like wasting energy on a fantasy until he was sure money was real.

So he shifted the question.

"Is it your client that wants to purchase the car?"

Only then did he give Lucas real attention.

Until that moment Lucas had been background. Present, quiet, easy to ignore. Now Moretti measured him openly, from his shoes upward, the same way he measured every young face that walked into this office looking too sharp and not nearly rich enough.

Lucas was already angry.

He just was not showing it yet.

From the first soft ranking, he had read Moretti clean. The tone. The way Bennett was treated like a small client who got lucky enough to reach this floor. The quiet assumption that neither of them belonged in a conversation about a car like that. Lucas kept his face calm and let the old man talk.

"Yes," Lucas said. "I’m the one purchasing the car."

Moretti looked at him again.

Longer this time.

Harder.

In his mind the doubt only grew. Lucas did not look like the buyers he respected. Not old enough. Not soft with long-built wealth. Too controlled. Too sudden. Maybe he was faking the whole thing. Maybe he wanted the image of buying. Maybe he would fold the second the real weight of the car hit the table.

Moretti watched his face carefully, searching for the crack. The nervous blink. The overconfident smile. The small shift fake buyers always gave away.

Lucas only looked back at him, steady and unreadable.

Moretti could not catch it.

So he pressed with price.

Suspicion sat openly on his face when he spoke.

"You know that this car costs more than a lot."

It was a test.

A warning.

The kind of line meant to make the wrong person lean back and start explaining themselves.

Lucas did not lean back.

"I know."

No speech.

No attempt to sound impressive.

Just that.

Moretti held his gaze, waiting for the retreat that did not come. When Lucas still refused to shift, something in the old man’s posture changed. Not respect. Not belief. Just the first unwilling acceptance that this might be real enough to continue.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick presentation book, and set it on the desk. The cover alone looked expensive. He turned it toward them, ready to walk through details, history, and numbers in the same controlled tone he used when he wanted people to feel both interested and small.

His hand was still on the book when the door banged open hard enough to cut the room in half.

No knock. No pause. No respect for the meeting already happening.

A young man walked in with a phone glued to his ear, talking so loud it felt deliberate. His voice filled the office like he owned the air in it. He did not lower it. He did not glance around first. He moved straight in, irritated, entitled, and completely convinced that whatever conversation he was having mattered more than anyone sitting in front of Moretti.

"I said handle it," he snapped into the phone. "No. No, listen to me. If they cannot move the schedule, replace them. I don’t care. Just get it done."

Moretti’s head turned.

Bennett’s eyes narrowed at once.

Lucas stayed seated.

The man kept walking like the office was empty. One hand waved through the air while he talked, rings flashing, voice climbing every time the person on the other end tried to answer. He laughed once, short and ugly, then cut the other person off again.

Only then did he notice the chairs.

His eyes landed on Lucas.

He did not stop walking. He did not introduce himself. He did not even end the call. He just raised one hand and made a sharp, lazy gesture toward Lucas, fingers flicking upward like he was dismissing a waiter.

Get up.

Move.

That chair is mine.

Lucas looked at him.

For a second he did not move at all. The gesture was so shameless it almost felt unreal. This stranger had stormed into a closed meeting, ignored Bennett, ignored Moretti’s guests, and was now waving him out of his seat like furniture in the way.

The man gestured again, harder this time, still on the phone.

"Hold on," he said into the call, then mouthed at Lucas with full irritation. "Get out of the chair."

Lucas’s face changed.

The calm he had been holding tightened into something colder.

The man was still talking, still pointing, still fully sure the room would obey him because rooms always did. Then he ended the call with a short, angry line, shoved the phone into his pocket, and finally turned his full attention on Lucas like he had already wasted enough time.