Chapter 8 - The Room Goes Dead Silent
A collective gasp swept through the thirty-two investors.
Margot’s eyes darted frantically between Gus, Dela, and her father. “Counsel? You... you hired her? She’s a waitress! She lives in a hovel on the West Side!”
“She graduated first in her class from Northwestern Law,” Gus replied smoothly. “She held the highest GPA in the history of the university’s corporate litigation clinic. And for the past seven months, she has documented every single transaction, shipment, and payoff made in this building.”
Arthur Sinclair began backing away from his chair, his breathing ragged. “This is an ambush. This entire dinner was an ambush!”
“Sit down, Arthur,” Gus commanded.
Arthur didn't sit. He reached into his coat pocket for his phone.
Before his hand could clear his jacket, the heavy double doors of the ballroom burst open with a deafening crash.
Eight federal agents wearing blue windbreakers with yellow letters emblazoned across their backs—FBI / FINANCIAL CRIMES DIVISION—poured into the dining room, led by two assistant United States attorneys.
Behind them walked Detective Raymond Vance.
Only Vance wasn't carrying his badge. His wrists were locked behind his back in heavy steel handcuffs, his head hanging low in defeat.
Julian Sinclair let out a whimpering sob and buried his face in his hands.
“Arthur Sinclair? Julian Sinclair?” Special Agent Miller announced, striding directly to the head of the table with a stack of federal arrest warrants. “Step away from the table and keep your hands where we can see them.”
“On what charges?” Arthur screamed, his voice turning shrill with desperation. “I am a board member of the Chicago Port Authority! You cannot touch me!”
“Federal conspiracy,” Agent Miller recited with cold efficiency. “Wire fraud. Maritime racketeering. And the first-degree aggravated murder of Port Authority Auditor Elias Hawthorne.”
Margot stood frozen, her hands clutching her emerald dress as if it were a shield.
She looked at Dela.
Dela stood three feet away, perfectly calm, her hands resting gently over her swollen stomach.
“You...” Margot hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and venomous hatred. “You ruined everything. My wedding... my family’s name... our empire... you ruined it all!”
Dela looked Margot dead in the eye.
“Your father murdered my husband for four hundred thousand dollars,” Dela said, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut deeper than any scream. “You didn't have an empire, Margot. You had a crime scene built on stolen blood.”
Two federal agents stepped forward, clicked handcuffs around Arthur Sinclair’s wrists, and led him away as thirty-two of the city’s wealthiest investors scrambled out of their seats, covering their faces from the flashbulbs of reporters who had suddenly flooded the corridor outside.
Julian was dragged out crying.
Margot was escorted out by two agents for questioning regarding corporate obstruction of justice, her heels clattering against the marble floor until the doors slammed shut behind her.
The Grand Ballroom emptied out in less than four minutes.
Only the overturned chairs, the broken scotch glass, the scattered cash, and the cold winter wind howling against the forty-second-floor windows remained.
May you like
And Augustine Vandermir.
And Delilah Hawthorne.
