Numbers don't lie.
That's why I liked them so much. Folks aren't honest instead, they cheat, twist things around, say stuff just to please you. Yet figures? Well, they simply exist.
I sat up high in my apartment style workspace near dawn, screens lit around me, each showing rows of numbers. Nope this wasn't what folks usually noticed. Nothing flashy here no loud events, no big debuts, no glossy features. Just the raw core. The hidden engine making sure nothing fell apart.
The beauty hustle? It's legit. No cover story just solid work turning serious cash, way before anything else blew up. I ran seven shops around town, my skincare brand hit three hundred spots across the country, partnered with big name stores on distribution deals. Four mil last quarter all above board, reported, squeaky clean.
Yet underneath lay more. Though it seemed simple at first glance.
The actual cash moved below. Same paths, identical setup just out in the open, unnoticed.
Feels sharp yeah, maybe even clever in my opinion.
My salons ran smooth. Busy streets brought steady customers, piles of cash changed hands every day, deliveries rolled in and out nonstop. Would anyone really care if a shop stocked up more than usual? Would they even notice the loads of dye tubes, combs, or makeup crates passing through?
Nobody. That's who.
The item arrived concealed fake bases tucked inside regular shipping crates, slipped among real cosmetics, boxed up to seem like big batches of hair wash or rinse. My warehouse supervisors were chosen carefully. Trustworthy. Paid good money. They understood exactly what to spot, where to send it, how to move it without any signs left behind.
After that, it shifted to locked basement spaces. Every parlor included one on paper, just extra stock storage. In reality, spots where things got passed out.
The cash felt somehow fresher.
Cash earned on the streets found its way into salon books as "tips" or income from fake product buys. A haircut's listed at a hundred bucks, customer hands over cash - then it's recorded like normal. Thing is, half that money actually moved from a Brooklyn block deal, not someone sitting in the chair. On documents though? Looks just like real earnings.
After that came the shell companies. I ran about seventeen. Each one was legit, officially filed, carrying its own tax ID and regular returns. One would charge another say for advice, creating stuff, or ad work not everything tied together at once. Cash shifted around from account to account, gaining distance every time, ending up looking like honest profits I could use without drawing attention.
Beauty products selling? Counts as a write-off for your biz. Every bit of it.
I even coughed up taxes on that cleaned cash this way, the IRS stays off your back. Pay what's owed, use whatever method works. They're fine with dirty origins if the payment lands. Just feed their hunger, nothing more.
The entire setup looked clean. Simple. Hard to follow unless you had a clear idea where to start. Yet if you did, it wasn't invisible.
I kept an eye out no one around.
My phone vibrated. A message popped up from Harold, he's my accountant, around sixty, handled money stuff for a few other hustlers running shady setups like mine. That's why he never pried.
Quarterly results are solid. Profit rose 23% compared to three months ago. Funds moved overseas without issues. All clear on paperwork.
Replied: Alright. Get the summaries ready for my talk next Monday.
He gave a thumbs up sign. Although Harold had years behind him, he kept picking up new stuff.
I opened a different spreadsheet. But this one was about my team not staff with official paychecks and tax forms. Nope, this listed the crew. The folks actually getting things done.
Bishop sat on top. Boss of safety at the "firm," though truthfully he handled muscle work. Got packages through without trouble, sorted out messes, held control downtown. Took home two payments first came legit via the barbershop as "security chief," second landed off-record in bills for the rest.
Kira. Called a "fleet manager" but that's not the whole story she handled deliveries, set up collection points, kept shipments off enemy radar. Never saw anyone drive like her. She'd shake a tail fast, maybe two turns down back streets. Give her sixty seconds, and she could start any engine. Plus, junkyards across town knew her name when we needed cars gone.
Malik. Called himself a facilities manager, but really handled all the logistics behind the scenes. Ex-military, so he knew his way around supply routes and staying under the radar. Because of him, no big load ever got busted or went missing. His planning kept everything running smooth.
Next came the stylists - around thirty total when you added up every spot. A lot of them? Just average folks clocking in their usual workday grind. Yet ten stood out one handful got paid straight through me. They shifted goods from one spot to another, took cash, sent updates higher up. From an outsider's view, they simply nailed their tasks nonstop action, raking in extra cash each shift.
They were raking in cash, sure. But it wasn't coming from cutting hair.
The cool thing about the setup? It had backups. One spot goes bad cops show up I just kill that piece, but everything else keeps moving. Each part stayed separate. Guys on corners never heard of the spas. Spa staff didn't have a clue about where stuff came from. And those shipping the goods? They weren't touching the dirty cash.
Just I, Bishop alongside Harold caught the full scene.
Harold stayed quiet since I gave him fifty grand each year to avoid asking stuff.
I slouched in my seat, staring at the rows of digits. That much cash. Influence tucked behind blow dryers and makeup counters sitting there quiet.
My phone rang ,Maya was calling.
"Hey," I answered.
"You asleep?" Her voice felt shaky.
"No. Working. What's up?"
"I was thinking about earlier. About what I said." She paused. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean "I'm just scared, Lina. Scared about what's happening. Scared about what could happen."
"I know."
"Do you though?" Her voice got softer. "Do you know how terrifying it is to watch someone you love change into someone you barely recognize? To watch them get harder and colder and more willing to…." She stopped. "I just want my friend back."
"I'm right here."
"No you're not. Not really." I could hear tears in her voice. "But I'm still here for you. Always. You know that right?"
"Yeah. I know."
We said good night. Then hung up. But that guilt twisted in my gut once more.
Maya just couldn't get it no matter how hard she tried. The chaos, the threats, those were clear enough. Yet what escaped her was the reason behind my actions. Each choice I took wasn't random; it shielded us, brought gains, held everything together.
She wished I'd act gentler. A bit warmer, now and then. Sort of how that girl once was long ago.
Yet that girl might've already died.
My PC made a sound message from Harold, marked important.
Got a mismatch in the Q3 check. Tiny one under five grand but still shows up. One person got into the money tally setup without approval. We're checking who did it.
I sat up tall. Then I read it once more.
A glitch. Tiny yet noticeable when you're looking. But still, it sticks out once seen.
Someone was skimming.
My teeth tightened. Here's what happened when you made a machine each piece needed to run just right. A single wobbly bolt, yet everything might break down.
Msg'd Harold: See what you can dig up about that person. Keep it low key. Wouldn't want anyone getting jumpy.
Working on it now expect updates by tomorrow. Got things moving, so info should arrive soon.
I shut the laptop. Then got on my feet. Moved toward the window that faced the city.
Somewhere out there, someone in my organization was stealing from me.
One person got into the counting room. That individual understood how things worked so they took only a bit, just enough to stay under notice.
Someone close.
That's what made empires tricky. As they grew, more folks needed your faith. Yet faith? It's the riskiest deal around.
My phone vibrated once more. Different digits on screen. Same person I didn't recognize
Trouble where things should be fine? I noticed the warning from the checkup.
Man, how'd they spot it? Harold's setup should've been safe.
Keep your hands off what I do.
Your business matters to me that's how we agreed. But there's a problem here: money's been slipping out for weeks. Not one person noticed until today. Even your bookkeeper missed it till now.
Who?
Work it out on your own. One thing about leading? It's learning whose word actually matters. But at this moment, you're listening to folks who don't got your back.
The words stopped right then. However hard I tried typing again, nothing ever came back.
I glanced back at the city. So many lights blinking. People moving through their days, clueless about the hidden power growing behind the scenes.
A kingdom beginning to fall apart within.
Jordan's mad but keen to join.
Maya felt frightened, so she stepped back.
One person taking stuff I own.
Dante Cruz delivers blooms also brings gunfire.
Rock edging nearer way too near in every bad situation possible.
A strange "buddy" who always found things out ahead of me.
The machine kept going. Yet things wear out.
I started wondering just how long I'd last before everything cracked open dragging me down too.
My phone flashed again. Message from Bishop.
Here's a thing worth mentioning. Jordan showed up in the Bronx after dark. He hooked up with someone tied to Dante.
I looked at the text. Then again, twice more.
No.
He wouldn't.
Would he?
Still, I already knew the truth. His eyes had shown me back at his place. The rage. A need to show he mattered.
That drive to quit playing the role of the younger sibling who's always left behind.
I'd wanted to keep him safe so I left him away.
Yet perhaps everything I'd tried just drove him closer to disaster.
Hit up Bishop: Watch that guy nonstop. All day, every day. Catch his moves, who he's chatting with.
You got it.
Sat back down at my computer. Then opened the audit files once more. Checked the figures slowly.
One person took stuff from me.
My sibling started sneaking around without me knowing.
My closest pal got frightened by my actions.
I sat here around two a.m., just me in the high-up apartment, handling a business that should've fixed things only ended up messing them up more.
The crown felt like a ton of bricks.
I started thinking maybe this wasn't worth carrying around.
Still, I had no way out. No chance to leave. It was already running.
All I had left was making sure it didn't stop.
Hope it wouldn't hit me while moving past.