The rusty harbor tugboat belched a thick plume of black diesel smoke as it chugged out of Port Hercule.
Stavros stood at the stern rail, waving his fist furiously at the docks until his voice gave out. Prince Al-arik sat on an overturned wooden grease barrel beside him, wringing sea brine out of his soaked silk shirt while shivering in the coastal breeze.
Lin Mo didn’t even blink as he watched the tugboat retreat into the open bay.
“Every time an arrogant person loses an argument, they immediately threaten to call their cousins,” Lin Mo remarked in a dry, deadpan voice. “It is like they all attended the exact same school for bad manners. You would think someone with a billion dollars could invent a new insult.”
Beside him, Master Nikos looked out toward the horizon with a deeply furrowed brow.
“Chairman Lin, Stavros is not entirely blustering,” Master Nikos said, his voice laced with genuine worry. “His maritime syndicate truly controls the leasing rights to the Aegean Twelve-Island Archipelago. He has deep, corrupt ties with maritime banks in Athens.”
Elena stepped forward, her dark blue eyes burning with indignation.
“Stavros calls it his private playground, but it is pure theft,” Elena said angrily, clutching her leather engineer’s notebook. “Those twelve islands have been home to three thousand honest Greek fishermen, olive farmers, and ancient temple caretakers for forty generations.”
