Page 11 of Corrupted Union

Ex-Banker Builds $10 Billion Fortune from Shipping Boom

Lawrence Wellington lefthis job in venture capital to buy out a failing shipping business. Decades later, he has one of the world’s largest maritime fortunes thanks to his company, Atlantic International Shipping (AIS).

Wellington’s savvy financial background enabled him to restructure the company in a way that kept business afloat. And after a twenty-million-dollar investment in rapid growth strategies, he soon forged one of the world’s largest container lines.

“The company grew like wildfire,” said Marshall Cranston, a London-based cargo analyst at research firm Venture Vessel. “AIS took decisive action in executing its growth strategies.”

A representative for New York-based AIS didn’t respond to a request for comment.

The article continuedwith details about the size of the company and outlined its recent endeavors. The Wellingtons were obnoxiously wealthy. I’d always known that—it was a big part of why Stetson didn’t take school seriously. I came from money as well, but I had decided on working with my father years ago, and that necessitated an exemplary school record. Stetson didn’t have any particular ambition. He didn’t see the point in school, but his father had been adamant that Stetson get his degree.

I didn’t necessarily learn anything new from the article, but it did make me wonder about Wellington’s initial move into shipping. I couldn’t recall if he’d come from money, and if so, how much. Had he invested his own money for the project, or had a bank been involved? Or maybe private investors? Dad might be more open to telling me what he knew about Wellington’s background than he had been in discussing possible criminal activities.

I skimmed a few more articles before abandoning that line of inquiry to pursue one I had even less business looking into. I typed the name Keir Byrne into the Google search bar. Nothing. This time, I entered Byrne family Irish Mafia. Was that what it was called? Wasn’t the Mafia an Italian thing? I had no idea, but the internet seemed to understand. The first result was an article dated only a few months ago titled “Coincidence or Assassination?” It had my attention.

One of theleaders of the powerful Byrne family was shot and killed last night outside a club owned by his Irish family, a known faction of organized crime in the city. Brody Byrne, one of three sons to the notorious Patrick Byrne, was fifty-eight when bullets from a passing car ended his life.

While Mafia-type criminal activity hasn’t been in the forefront of the news in recent decades, the death certainly has all the hallmark indications of a hit. Byrne left behind a wife and three grown children. Authorities are looking into the death, but according to Police Commissioner Paul Cooke, drive-by shootings have one of the lowest rates of prosecution due to the evidentiary challenges.

The man pictured borea striking resemblance to Keir. Similar blue eyes. Same ruthless glint. Would that be Keir’s fate one day? How dangerous was the life he led?

Dad said he wasn’t scared of the Byrnes, but I wondered if that wasn’t bravado talking. Keir and his family were unquestionably dangerous. It was only logical to fear them.

You didn’t fear Keir.

Yeah, but I’m different. Broken.

Or … hear me out … maybe your intuition told you he wouldn’t hurt you. Remember that whole survival instincts, hunter and prey monologue? If you could tell he was watching, maybe you could intuit that he wasn’t dangerous.

You’re awfully opinionated.

I rolled my eyes and continued to scour the internet for information on the man who had jump-started my pulse after years of flatline. My curiosity was insatiable, and that wasn’t the only thing. For the second night in a row, the thought of turquoise eyes and the unrelenting dominance of an iron will had me coming within minutes of touching myself. Faster than I’d ever climaxed before and hard enough that I successfully avoided thinking about his effect on me before falling blissfully asleep.

Sticky clumpsof blood matted her hair. It wasn’t a ton of blood, but her white-blond hair made the deep crimson that much more obvious.

The sight turned my stomach inside out. What terrified me the most was how perfectly still she lay. Time froze as thoroughly as the body at my feet. The wind didn’t blow. The birds didn’t chirp. All but my thundering heart had stopped—it pounded as though trying to jump-start the world around me, but it was no good. Nothing moved. Not even me.

I stood paralyzed and helpless, unable to move or cry for help, though my mind screamed from behind its iron bars to dosomething. The only thing I managed was to peer down in shock at my open hands, palms up and covered in blood.

My stomach revolted, panic burning its way up my throat.

The girl had hardly bled—where had it all come from? My hands were coated in sticky crimson. My clothes were splattered and smeared. I was covered from head to toe.

Agonizing terror refused to be contained any longer, bursting from my lungs in the form of a horrific wail. The sound caught in my ears as I lurched upward in bed, a hand slapping over my mouth as I raced for the bathroom.

I made it to the toilet in time to spew an acidic cocktail of bile and dinner remnants. Tears poured down my cheeks, which was almost as unsettling as the nightmare. I didn’t cry. Hadn’t since I was a child. Yet rivulets of salty sadness streaked down my face.

It was just a dream, Ro.

You know it was more than that.

No. It was a dream.

I might have felt concerned about whoever had been crying, but that didn’t change the fact that what I’d just seen was a dream. I wouldn’t let my subconscious color my waking thoughts.

So you’re going to let it go?

I didn’t say that. I only meant that I won’t go off half-cocked.

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