Ruthless

"Please, this shipping company has been my family's business for four generations. I can't lose it," a man in his thirties pleaded, tears streaming down his face as he knelt in Dalton's office.

"Sign," Dalton demanded impatiently, disregarding the man's tears. He found him pathetic; he had never witnessed a grown man cry so helplessly.

"My father will die of grief if I lose it. Have mercy on me," the man pleaded, his voice rising in desperation.

"I am waiting for your signature, Mr. Banks," Dalton said, tapping the transfer document on the desk with a pen resting on top of it.

"Please, please," Mr. Banks kept pleading.

"Then I will do it the hard way," Dalton said, fixing a hard stare on Mr. Banks. "With one phone call, I can have one of your cargo shipments, scheduled to arrive at the port in thirty minutes, raided by the cops, and narcotics will be found."