Chapter 5 - The Sunrise Takeover
Dawn broke over the Manhattan skyline in a wash of pale gold and slate gray.
Inside the executive boardroom of Cross Global Enterprises on the forty-seventh floor of the Trump Tower equivalent, Damien Cross leaned back in his leather executive chair, swirling a glass of twenty-year-old bourbon as he watched the morning sun glint off the Hudson River.
Across from him sat Clara Vance, wrapped in a silk designer bathrobe, sipping imported espresso.
“Moretti must be losing his mind by now,” Clara laughed softly, blowing across the surface of her coffee. “Can you imagine? Left stranded in a wheelchair in front of half the social register while I’m already drinking coffee in your tower?”
Damien smirked, taking a long sip of his bourbon. “Moretti was finished the second that bullet hit his spine. You just sped up the timeline, sweetheart. By noon today, the banks will freeze his commercial accounts, and I’ll acquire his entire real estate portfolio for ten cents on the dollar.”
Ding.
The private elevator chime echoed through the penthouse suite.
Damien frowned, glancing at his Rolex. “Expecting someone? My legal team isn't scheduled until nine.”
Before Clara could answer, the double oak doors of the boardroom swung open.
It wasn't his legal team.
It was Marcus Hale, flanked by two armed federal marshals and a senior partner from one of New York’s most ruthless corporate bankruptcy firms.
Damien slammed his glass down onto the glass desk, standing up abruptly. “What the hell is this?! You can’t just walk in here! This is private property!”
“It was private property, Cross,” Marcus said smoothly, stepping into the room with a stack of heavy legal files tucked under his arm. He tossed a thick sheaf of parchment onto the desk, right beside Clara’s coffee cup.
Damien looked down at the top page. His color drained instantly.
“Notice of Immediate Foreclosure and Default of Senior Debt,” Damien read aloud, his voice cracking on the final syllable. “What is this? This... this is impossible! My debt isn't due for another four years!”
“It was four years,” a cool, velvet voice echoed from the doorway.
Damien and Clara both whipped their heads around.
Adrian Moretti rolled slowly into the boardroom, his carbon-fiber wheels gliding silently across the imported Turkish rug. Behind him pushed Emily Harper, wearing an immaculate charcoal-gray Chanel pantsuit that looked like it had been tailored for a queen of shadows.
“Adrian…” Clara stammered, dropping her coffee cup. It shattered against the hardwood floor, sending dark brown liquid splashing across her bare feet. “How... how are you here? You’re supposed to be bankrupt!”
Adrian stopped his chair three feet from Damien’s desk. He looked up at his former rival with eyes as cold and empty as deep space.
“You tried to kill me three years ago, Damien,” Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “You took my legs. You thought you broke my spirit. And yesterday, you thought you could humiliate me in front of the city.”
Damien grabbed the edge of the desk, his hands shaking violently. “You can’t do this! The regulators will block the seizure! I have political connections!”
“Your political connections were indicted at 6:00 A.M. this morning for municipal zoning fraud,” Emily supplied helpfully, stepping forward and resting her hands on the back of Adrian’s chair. She looked at Damien with the same pity one gives to a stray dog caught in traffic. “We bought your debt portfolio at 10:00 P.M. last night, Cross. Every warehouse, every shipping container, every yacht, and every square inch of this building now belongs to the Moretti Trust.”
Marcus stepped forward, placing a set of cold steel handcuffs on the mahogany desk right in front of Damien.
“You have two choices, Cross,” Marcus said pleasantly. “You can sign the voluntary asset forfeiture forms, or we can let the federal marshals escort you out in front of the news crews currently waiting in the lobby.”
May you like
Damien looked from Adrian’s unyielding face to the federal marshals, then down at Clara, who was already backing away toward the windows like a cornered animal.
His knees buckled. He collapsed back into his leather chair, a broken man.
