Chapter 7 - The Boardroom Ambush
The 45th floor of the Sterling Tower was buzzing with nervous energy. Rumors of the morning's raids had spread through Wall Street like wildfire, causing the stock to dip three percent at market open.
Dominic burst through the double glass doors of the boardroom, breathless, his hair disheveled, wearing an off-the-rack suit he had hastily bought from a department store around the corner.
"Gentlemen! Ladies!" Dominic boomed, slamming his palms onto the long mahogany table where twelve senior board members sat in stunned silence. "Do not panic! The rumors you've heard are nothing more than a personal vendetta orchestrated by my estranged wife! Clara has suffered a severe emotional breakdown following our child's medical issues, and she is attempting to sabotage this company out of sheer spite!"
Several board members looked at each other with unease.
"Dominic," said Arthur Pendelton, the oldest board member and my father’s former partner. "Federal marshals were at your residence this morning. The SEC issued an inquiry thirty minutes ago regarding the Cayman transfers."
"A clerical error!" Dominic yelled, sweat beading on his forehead. "Gregory Turner, our head of logistics, has all the receipts! Gregory, stand up and explain it to them!"
Dominic turned toward the back of the room, but Gregory Turner wasn't standing. Gregory was sitting quietly in the corner, his head down, flanked by two plainclothes detectives from the Manhattan District Attorney's Financial Crimes Bureau.
"Gregory?" Dominic blinked, his voice faltering. "What is this?"
"He can't answer you, Dominic," a voice commanded from the entrance.
The board members immediately rose to their feet. I walked into the room, flanked by Marcus Cole and two federal prosecutors. Every eye turned toward me. I was dressed in immaculate charcoal tailoring, my posture regal, unyielding, and calm.
"Clara..." Dominic stammered, his arrogance collapsing into panic. "Clara, please. Let's talk about this in private. The board doesn't need to see family dirty laundry—"
"You stopped being family the moment you let your mother starve my son," I said, my voice cutting through the chilled air like dry ice.
I took the head seat at the table—the seat my father occupied for thirty years. Marcus plugged a laptop into the central presentation projector. The massive flat-screen monitors on the boardroom walls illuminated with forensic balance sheets, surveillance photographs, and bank routing numbers.
"Over the past eighteen months, seventy-two unauthorized wire transfers were authorized using Dominic Vance’s digital signature," I announced to the room. "The total amount stolen from corporate coffers exceeds fourteen million two hundred thousand dollars."
May you like
Dominic shook his head frantically. "I didn't steal it! It was an investment! For Brooke and Liam! My son's future!"
"Your son?" I pulled the yellow envelope from my briefcase and tossed it across the table. It landed right in front of Dominic’s trembling hands. "Turn to page three, Dominic."
