Chapter 5 - The Snake's Banquet
Tuesday arrived under a sky the color of wet slate.
At 10:00 AM, the grand executive conference room on the fortieth floor of Cross Tower was packed to capacity.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, heavy wool coats, and underlying tension. Twelve senior captains of the Cross Syndicate sat along the long mahogany table. In the center sat Mr. Harrison, the senior estate lawyer, a frail man with thin glasses who looked visibly uncomfortable.
At the head of the table sat Griffin Cross, dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit, leaning back in Ezra’s leather chair with absolute, arrogant ease. To his left sat Paige Harrington, wearing a high-collared black dress lined with diamonds. To his right sat Victor Slade, his hands folded neatly over a black leather folder.
"Let’s get this over with, Harrison," Griffin commanded, waving his hand impatiently. "The syndicate needs a clear line of succession. Read the document."
Mr. Harrison cleared his throat nervously, unfolding a heavy parchment document stamped with a golden wax seal.
"Pursuant to the sudden demise of Ezra Cross," Harrison read, his voice trembling slightly, "and in the absence of a designated living spouse, the total estate—including controlling shares of the Cross Shipping Corporation, real estate holdings, and liquid assets totaling four hundred million dollars—is to be managed under total conservatorship..."
"Skip the legal jargon," Griffin snapped, leaning forward. "Who gets the vote?"
"The conservatorship," Harrison stammered, "grants full operational authority to Griffin Cross, with a twenty-percent beneficiary stake allocated to Paige Harrington. The minor heir, Rosie Cross, is to be placed under state wardship until her eighteenth birthday, with an annual stipend of twelve thousand dollars."
A quiet murmur rippled across the room. Twelve thousand dollars a year for the daughter of a man worth half a billion dollars. It was an insult so vast, so cruel, that even a few hardened syndicate captains exchanged uneasy glances.
"Twelve thousand?" Captain Marco, an older man who had served Ezra’s father, spoke up, his brow furrowed in anger. "That’s Ezra’s blood! His daughter gets twelve thousand dollars while you take four hundred million?"
Griffin turned a slow, lethal glare toward Marco. "Ezra is dead, Marco. A five-year-old girl cannot run a multi-million-dollar empire. She will be taken care of at a private institution in Maine. The decision is final."
"And what about her nanny?" Paige added with a cruel laugh. "The girl was thrown out of the estate an hour ago."
Two hours earlier, at the Beacon Hill mansion.
The heavy front doors flew open, and two broad-shouldered guards tossed three worn canvas bags onto the snow-covered steps.
Willa was pushed out into the freezing wind, stumbling onto the icy stone. She scrambled up, reaching back toward the open doorway where two guards held a crying, screaming Rosie by her arms.
"Let her go!" Willa screamed, her face pale, tears freezing on her cheeks. "You can't do this! Rosie! Rosie!"
"Willa! Willa!" the little girl shrieked, kicking her tiny legs, trying frantically to reach her nanny. "Don't leave me! Daddy! Willa!"
Guard Captain Bruno stepped out onto the porch, shoving Willa back down the steps with a iron hand. "Get lost, girl. The new master said you step foot on this property again, we put a bullet in your knee."
Willa grabbed Bruno’s coat, her green eyes burning with a desperate, wild fury. "She’s a child! She’s five years old! How can you do this to a motherless child?!"
Bruno sneered, shoving her violently onto the snow. "Orders are orders. Now get out of here before I call the cops for trespassing."
The heavy oak doors slammed shut, locking with a loud, mechanical thud.
Willa lay in the snow, her body shaking hysterically, listening to the muffled screams of little Rosie echoing from behind the thick wooden door.
She picked herself up from the freezing ground, wiping her bruised cheek. She didn't run. She didn't leave.
She walked around to the side of the house, grabbing an iron garden spade from the shed, her jaw locked into an expression of absolute, terrifying determination. She was going to smash the kitchen window, grab Rosie, and run—even if it cost her her life.
Meanwhile, at Cross Tower.
"Sign the document, Victor," Griffin said, pushing a golden fountain pen across the glass table toward the senior adviser. "Once you sign as the third witness, the probate judge will ratify it by noon."
Victor Slade looked at the pen. He picked it up, his hand steady, his eyes calm. He looked at Griffin, then at Paige, who was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Ezra was a good leader," Victor said quietly, his voice dry as dust. "He brought us stability."
"Ezra was soft," Griffin sneered. "He spent more time playing house with his brat and the nanny than expanding our territory. His time is over, Victor. Sign."
Victor lowered the pen to the paper.
BOOM!
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The double doors of the executive conference room didn't just open.
They shattered off their heavy brass hinges, exploding inward with a deafening thunderclap that shattered the surrounding glass walls into ten thousand flying fragments!
