Chapter 8 - A Sudden Threat in the Parking Garage: “Stay Out of Dead Men’s Graves, Corbin.”
“I know someone’s up there,” a gruff voice called out from the second-floor landing.
It was not Uncle Richard. It was Thomas ‘Grizz’ Miller—a former private security contractor who had worked as Vance’s personal enforcer for a decade.
Corbin tightened his grip on the leather bag. He stepped out calmly onto the top of the wooden staircase, illuminated by Miller’s flashlight.
“Lower the light, Miller,” Corbin said, his executive authority cutting through the shadows like a blade. “You are trespassing on Stanford property.”
Miller blinked, lowering the beam slightly as he recognized the CEO. A tense smirk touched the enforcer's weathered face. “Mr. Corbin Stanford. Mr. Vance warned us you might start poking around after you started digging into the housekeeper’s records this afternoon.”
“Vance is a corporate parasite,” Corbin said coldly, descending the stairs without a hint of fear. “And you are an accessory to grand larceny and racketeering. Step aside.”
Miller did not move. He stood in the narrow hallway, blocking the exit door. He reached inside his jacket, resting his hand against the grip of a concealed firearm.
“You’ve got a good life, Corbin,” Miller said in a low, threatening drawl. “You run a four-billion-dollar empire. You have luxury estates, private jets, and the respect of the entire state. Why throw it all away for a dead bastard half-brother and a penniless maid?”
“Because that ‘bastard’ was ten times the man you or Richard will ever be,” Corbin replied, his eyes narrowing. “And his son is the rightful heir to what you stole.”
Miller took a step closer, his voice dropping into a sinister whisper: “Samuel thought he could be a hero too, Corbin. Remember how that ended on that icy road in Maine? Brake lines on vintage cars are notoriously fragile in winter storms. It would be a terrible tragedy if the CEO of Stanford Development met with a similar accident on his way home.”
The confession hung in the cold air like poisoned frost.
Samuel hadn't died in a random rollover. They had sabotaged his vehicle.
Corbin felt a surge of adrenaline. With lightning speed born of years of boxing training in his youth, Corbin feinted with the heavy leather bag, driving it into Miller’s face.
Miller grunted, stumbling backward as the flashlight clattered to the floor. Before the enforcer could draw his weapon, Corbin drove his shoulder into Miller’s midsection, slamming him against the oak wall, and delivered a decisive right hook that sent the man sprawling onto the hardwood floor.
Corbin snatched Miller’s fallen firearm, dropped the magazine, racked the slide to clear the chambered round, and tossed the useless weapon out into the rainy garden.
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He stood over the groaning enforcer, his voice arctic and merciless:
“Tell Arthur Vance and Richard that I am coming for them at ten o'clock tomorrow morning in the main boardroom. Tell them to bring every lawyer they have left. Because by noon, they will be leaving in handcuffs.”
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