Chapter 47 - The Fall of Rostov
Before Rostov could recover his composure or reach for the panic button concealed beneath his executive desk, the heavy double doors of the penthouse office burst open once more.
A squad of Swiss federal financial police, accompanied by Interpol agents and local tactical officers, flooded into the room. Their weapons were holstered, but their demeanor brooked no argument. An Interpol senior inspector stepped to the front, flashing an international arrest warrant bearing Rostov's legal name and alias.
"Dmitri Rostov," the inspector announced in crisp, authoritative German-accented English. "You are under arrest for international money laundering, corporate extortion, financial terrorism, and conspiracy to commit industrial espionage. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
Rostov looked around the penthouse in sheer desperation, realizing that his sprawling financial empire had collapsed around him like a house of cards in a hurricane. He glared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred, but the fight had completely drained out of him. Two Interpol agents stepped forward, grabbing his arms roughly, clicking heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists, and escorting him away toward the private elevator.
As Rostov was hauled out of his own penthouse in disgrace, I let out a long, slow breath, feeling the last lingering shadow of our past finally evaporate into the crisp alpine air.
"Well," Viktor muttered, watching the elevator doors close behind the handcuffed financier. "That certainly beats a shootout in an abandoned warehouse."
"It's cleaner, more permanent, and far more devastating to men like Rostov," I replied, turning away from the desk and clapping Marcus encouragingly on the shoulder. "You handled that like a seasoned executive, kid."
May you like
Marcus smiled, closing his tactical laptop and slipping it into his backpack. "I had a great mentor, Boss. Shall we head back to Chicago? I think the foundation has a few new endowment millions to celebrate."
"Let's go home," I said, looking out over the breathtaking expanse of Lake Zurich as the bright morning sun melted away the last remnants of winter. The corporate syndicate war was definitively over, and our family's sanctuary was secure for all eternity.
