Chapter 8 - The Boardroom Ambush
The mahogany boardroom on the forty-second floor of Rowan Freight Tower downtown was bathed in the cold, gray twilight of a Chicago evening.
Seven board members sat around the polished walnut table, their faces taut with tension. Among them was Marcus Sterling, the senior vice president of acquisitions—a man who had spent the last five years whispering behind Gabriel’s back that the company needed to return to its underground roots to survive the port tariff hikes.
At the head of the table sat an empty chair. Gabriel’s chair.
“He’s twenty minutes late,” Marcus murmured, checking his diamond-encrusted Rolex for the fourth time. “If Rowan doesn't sign off on the restructuring by sundown, the Volkov syndicate takes over the eastern slipways by default. The paperwork is already filed with the municipal clerk.”
“Are you sure Evan handled the estate?” asked Diane Vance, the head of legal compliance, her fingers nervously tapping a gold pen against the blotter.
“Evan has managed Gabriel’s shadow accounts for a decade,” Marcus scoffed, pouring himself a finger of scotch. “The man doesn't miss a beat. Once Gabriel is out of the picture, we restructure the board, take the Bratva capital, and triple our quarterly margins.”
Clack.
The heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open with the force of a battering ram.
The room went dead silent.
Gabriel Rowan walked into the room alone. His black overcoat was unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened, and his knuckles bore the faint, reddish bruises of a man who had spent the afternoon tearing down an empire with his bare hands.
In his right hand, he carried a slim black leather envelope.
Marcus Sterling dropped his glass of scotch. The crystal shattered against the walnut floor, amber liquid pooling across the expensive Persian rug like spilled blood.
“Gabriel,” Marcus choked out, his face turning the color of skim milk. “You... you should be at the mansion.”
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Gabriel walked slowly to the head of the table, pulling out his designated leather chair. He didn't sit down. Instead, he placed both hands flat on the polished wood, leaning forward until his shadow fell across every single person sitting at the table.
“I was at the mansion, Marcus,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into that dark, flat register that made seasoned executives shrink back into their leather chairs. “And do you know what I found out? I found out that rats don’t just live in the basement. Sometimes, they wear three-thousand-dollar suits and sit on my board of directors.”
