Sinclair Foundation: The philanthropic arm. Publicly praised for its work in underprivileged communities, mental health, shelters, education. Camille’s domain.
But behind the glow of glowing articles and gala smiles?
It bleeds money.
And not just in the expected ways.
“Your girl’s got good instincts,” Joaquin says over comms, voice sharp, clinical. “She’s shifted funding into programs with actual impact. But it’s mismanaged. Bad oversight. Especially in East Harlem and a few international education initiatives in Morocco and Argentina. Money’s going in but results don’t match.”
“Bleeding?” I ask, pacing my office with a mug of black coffee and a mind already ten moves ahead.
“Like an artery. Four million in the last fiscal cycle alone, spread over five projects. Looks like someone’s cooking the reports to keep it quiet. A few of the vendors tied to shell companies out of Panama and the Caymans. Some overlap with Sinclair Media’s production contracts.”
“So, it’s internal.”
“Definitely.”
I smile. Cold. Calculated.
Now I have leverage.
Camille might not know. She’s too hands-on with the projects themselves, too focused on fixing things to notice the numbers bleeding out behind her.
But her father?
Charles Sinclair knows.
And soon, he’ll know I know.
Day Five.
I arrive at Rivera Holdings at 6:55 a.m. because I’m too wired to pretend to sleep anymore. I sign off on a twenty-million-dollar clean energy deal in Colorado, move two illegal shipments out of Cartagena, and restructure the flow of laundered cartel money through a pop-up wellness brand in Brooklyn.
By noon, I’ve already scheduled the meeting with Charles Sinclair.
It won’t be informal.
He’s not the type.
It’ll be a performance.
An opening move.
My lawyers start working the angles. Rivera Holdings begins purchasing Sinclair Media stock quietly, through proxy shell groups, investment alliances, and silent board insiders Joaquin identifies.
“You’ll have a ten percent foothold within the month,” Joaquin tells me.
“Double it.”
He raises a brow. “That’s aggressive.”
I stare out at the skyline, Camille’s voice still ghosting in my ears.
“So am I.”
Day Six.
I get my first response from Charles.
