Big Tony stared at Ryan like he’d just sprouted horns.
“Ten thousand tons?” he repeated slowly, as if saying it again might make the number make sense.
“Kid—sir—do you have any idea what you’re asking for?
That’s…
Jesus Christ, that’s enough rice to feed a small country for half a year!
I’d have to contact every supplier from here to Kansas, pull favors I’ve been saving for a decade, and probably violate about fifteen different interstate commerce regulations!” His face had gone from pale to flushed, sweat beading on his forehead despite the warehouse’s industrial air conditioning.
“Seven days?” Tony continued, his voice climbing.
“You want me to source and deliver ten thousand tons of rice in SEVEN DAYS?
That’s not a bulk order, that’s a goddamn FEMA disaster response!
The logistics alone would be—” “Figure it out,” Ryan said flatly.
He leaned back in the folding chair, completely relaxed, and fixed Tony with a look that could freeze water.
“I came to you because you’re supposed to be the best.
You want to tell me I was wrong?
That Big Tony can’t actually deliver when it counts?
Because I’ve got three other distributors I can call right now who’d kill for this contract.” Tony’s mouth worked silently for a moment.
Ryan pressed on.
“Contact every supplier you know.
Hit up your connections in the Midwest, the South, wherever.
Call in every favor you’ve ever been owed.
Money isn’t the issue.
Logistics is your problem to solve.
That’s what I’m paying you for.” “We can write up a contract,” Ryan added.
“Formal, legal, binding.
Delivery schedule, payment terms, penalties for delays, bonuses for early delivery.
Whatever makes you comfortable.
But I need a yes or no right now, Tony.
Are you in or are you out?” Tony’s breathing had gone rapid and shallow.
Ryan watched the calculations happening behind his eyes.
Ten thousand tons of rice, five thousand tons of pasta, three thousand tons of beans, millions of cans…
The profit margin on a deal this size would be absolutely insane.
Even with the rush fees and the bribes and the overtime costs, Tony was probably looking at the biggest payday of his entire life.
Maybe enough to retire on.
“If I do this,” Tony said slowly, “if I actually pull this off…
the profit would be…” He trailed off, clearly doing mental math that was making him dizzy.
“Astronomical,” Ryan finished for him.
“Life-changing.
Enough to buy that beach house in the Bahamas you’ve been dreaming about.
Enough to tell every asshole supplier who’s ever jerked you around to go fuck themselves.
Enough to never have to work another day in your life if you don’t want to.” Tony swallowed hard.
“But if I screw this up…” “If you screw this up, you’ll never work in this industry again,” Ryan said pleasantly.
“I’ll make sure of it.
I’ll blacklist you with every supplier, every distributor, every warehouse from here to California.
You’ll be lucky to get a job stocking shelves at Costco.” The carrot and the stick, laid out crystal clear.
Tony stared at him for a long, tense moment.
Then he slammed his meaty palm down on the desk.
“Fuck it!
I’m in!” He hauled himself to his feet, his whole body quivering with manic energy.
“You want ten thousand tons of rice?
I’ll get you twelve thousand!
You want canned goods?
I’ll strip every warehouse in three states!
Within seven days?
I’ll have it there in SIX!” “That’s what I like to hear,” Ryan said, standing and extending his hand.
Tony crushed it in a grip that was probably meant to be reassuring but mostly just hurt.
“You won’t regret this, boss!
I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m gonna make this happen!” “I’m counting on it,” Ryan said.
He headed for the door, then paused and looked back.
“Oh, and Tony?
One more thing.” “Yeah, boss?” “Keep your mouth shut about this.
I don’t want you bragging to your buddies at the bar about landing some huge contract.
You don’t mention my name, you don’t mention the quantities, you don’t mention anything.
As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re fulfilling a corporate order for a private client.
That’s it.
Understood?” Tony nodded so hard his jowls shook.
“Yes sir.
Absolutely.
I’m a goddamn vault.” “Good man.” Ryan walked out, leaving Tony already pulling out his phone and barking orders at someone about contacting grain elevators in Nebraska.
Ryan sat in his BMW for a moment, letting the adrenaline settle.
One massive order down.
But his infinite storage space was still essentially empty—a vast, hungry void waiting to be filled.
And rice and pasta alone wouldn’t cut it.
He needed protein.
He needed fats.
He needed the kind of calorie-dense food that would sustain him through months of extreme cold and brutal physical demands.
He needed meat.
Ryan pulled up Google Maps on his phone and typed: “bulk meat distributor New York” The top result was exactly what he was looking for.
Hudson Valley Cold Storage & Distribution Located in Newburgh, about forty minutes north.
Their website showed massive industrial freezers, photos of hanging beef carcasses, and testimonials from restaurant chains praising their volume capacity.
Perfect.
Ryan started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading north on the Taconic Parkway.
Hudson Valley Cold Storage was an imposing concrete fortress on the outskirts of Newburgh—five connected warehouse buildings, each the size of an airplane hangar, surrounded by a chain-link fence and refrigerated delivery trucks.
The smell hit Ryan the moment he stepped out of his car.
Blood, raw meat, the sharp chemical tang of industrial refrigeration.
It was powerful enough to make his eyes water.
He walked through the main entrance into a lobby that was trying too hard to look professional—cheap corporate art on the walls, a receptionist behind bulletproof glass, fluorescent lights humming overhead.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked, looking up from her phone.
“I need to see the owner.
It’s about a bulk order.” “Do you have an appointment?” “No.
But tell him I’m here to spend about fifty million dollars and see if that changes his schedule.” The receptionist’s eyes went wide.
She picked up the phone.
Two minutes later, a side door opened and a man emerged who looked like he’d been carved from granite and left out in the weather to age.
Six-foot-three, easily 250 pounds of muscle gone slightly soft around the edges, with a shaved head, a scar running down his left cheek, and the kind of nose that had been broken multiple times.
He wore a blood-stained apron over a flannel shirt and moved with the rolling gait of someone who’d done serious time either in the military or in prison.
Probably both.
“I’m Marcus,” the man said, his voice a low rumble.
“I own this place.
Tina says you’re here to waste my time with bullshit.” “That’s not exactly what I said—” the receptionist started.
“I’m here to buy meat,” Ryan said calmly.
“All of it.
Everything you’ve got in your freezers.
And I need it delivered within the week.” Marcus stared at him for three full seconds.
Then he laughed—a harsh, barking sound with zero humor in it.
“Kid, do you have any fucking clue how much inventory I keep in those freezers?
We’re talking tens of thousands of tons.
Beef, pork, lamb, chicken, seafood.
I supply every major restaurant chain in the tri-state area.
You think you can just walk in here and—” Ryan pulled out his phone and showed Marcus his banking app.
Balance: $9,127,000 Marcus’s laugh died mid-breath.
“Name your price,” Ryan said.
Marcus’s eyes flicked between Ryan’s face and the phone screen.
His expression shifted from contempt to calculation.
“You’re serious.” “Dead serious.
I want ten million pounds of pork, five million pounds of beef, five million pounds of lamb, and another ten million pounds of chicken, seafood, and specialty meats.
Thirty million pounds total.
Delivered to this address—” Ryan pulled out another folded note, “—within seven days.” He dropped the paper on the receptionist’s desk.
Marcus picked it up, read the address, then looked back at Ryan with new respect—and a hint of suspicion.
“That’s a private residence.
What the hell are you planning to do with thirty million pounds of meat at a private residence?” “That’s my business,” Ryan said.
“Your business is whether you can source it and deliver it.
Can you?” Marcus crossed his arms, making his biceps strain against his shirt.
“Yeah.
I can do it.
But it’s gonna cost.
We’re talking about clearing out my entire inventory, plus buying from every supplier I know, renting refrigerated trucks, hiring extra drivers, working my staff around the clock…” “How much?” Marcus did some quick mental math.
“Forty million.
That’s wholesale cost plus logistics plus my margin.
Take it or leave it.” “Forty-five million,” Ryan countered.
Marcus blinked.
“What?” “I’ll pay you forty-five million total.
Five million as a deposit right now, another ten million when you start deliveries, and the final thirty million on completion.
But I want it done in six days, not seven.
Every day early, you get a two million dollar bonus.
Every day late, I dock you three million.
Deal?” Marcus’s jaw had gone slack.
“You…
you’re offering me more money?
And a bonus structure?”
If you are interested can check it out.