REBORN My Second Life I Became The Villianess (Nyxara) novel Chapter 82

After we finished touring the administrative side, Uncle Pascal drove us down to the active piers where the container ships were actually being unloaded. The noise down there was deafening, the roar of heavy diesel engines, the metallic clank of chains and shipping hooks, and the shouts of dock workers moving heavy wooden crates across the concrete.

We walked along the edge of the pier, the salty wind whipping my hair across my face. A group of local foremen were standing near a stack of open crates, arguing over a delayed shipment of imported electronics. When they saw Pedro walking toward them, their voices instantly dropped, and they straightened up, clearing a path.

"Boss," one of the older men said, nodding respectfully.

"Report," Dad said, his voice cutting through the noise of the cranes above us.

"Container 40-B was flagged by customs up in the northern sector," the foreman said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag. "They're holding it for an extra inspection. Standard bureaucratic bullshit, but it's going to delay the drop by twenty-four hours."

"Fix it," Dad said, not missing a beat. "Call the director of port security. Remind him whose trucks use these lanes every Tuesday night. If the container isn't cleared by sunset, he can find a new job."

"On it," the foreman muttered, turning away fast to grab his radio.

I watched the interaction, filing away the names and the tone. This was how power worked in the real world. No dramatic speeches, no wasted breath. Just a single phone call and a reminder of who actually ran the infrastructure.

As we continued walking down the pier, the sun began to sink lower toward the horizon. The shift was changing, and fresh crews of workers were streaming in through the security gates while the day shift packed up their gear.

"We're heading back to the main compound for dinner," Uncle Pascal said, checking his watch as he walked beside me. "Your old man wants to go over the ledger updates for the eastern sector before the night meetings start."

"Lead the way," I said, turning back toward the waiting SUVs.

The evening air down by the harbor was thick with salt and exhaust, the kind of heavy heat that made your shirt stick to your back after five minutes. We climbed back into the black SUVs, the doors thudding shut with a solid, reassuring sound. Uncle Pascal slid into the front passenger seat, tossing a thick folder of manifests onto the dashboard, while my dad settled next to me in the back.

"We'll review the eastern sector numbers back at the compound," Dad said, his eyes scanning the tablet screen in his lap. "The shipping lanes out of the eastern docks have been running three percent over budget for two quarters. Someone's skimming off the top."

I nodded, leaning my head back against the leather headrest without looking at the screen. He wasn't asking me to check the numbers or get involved in the actual work; he was just showing me how the machine ran, letting me see the gears turning behind the scenes of the empire he built.

"People get greedy when they think nobody is watching, I learnt that in my last life when I stared Cipher core" I said, keeping my voice light.

Dad looked over at me, a sharp, approving glint in his dark eyes. "Exactly. A small leak turns into a flood if you let it sit." he said.

The convoy rolled out from the pier, tires crunching over loose gravel before hitting the paved perimeter road that led back toward the main compound. The industrial district at night looked different than it did in the daylight. The bright, blinding sun was gone, replaced by harsh amber sodium lights glowing over chain-link fences, empty storage lots, and dark, looming warehouses. Traffic was thin out here, mostly heavy freight trucks moving cargo toward the interstate or local delivery vans creeping along the dark side streets.

We were about halfway back when the lead vehicle suddenly hit the brakes so hard the tires screeched against the asphalt. Our SUV surged forward, the driver swearing under his breath as he slammed his own brakes to avoid ramming the bumper ahead of us.

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