Chapter 4 - THE PROSECUTOR’S PLAYBOOKThe penthouse suite of the Drake Hotel smelled of expensive scotch and raw desperation.
Grant Mercer was pacing across the Persian rug like a caged animal, his navy suit rumpled, his hair out of place. He slammed his fist onto the marble coffee table, rattling the crystal highball glasses.
"I don't care how you do it, Marcus!" Grant shouted into his encrypted burner phone. "The audit has to be stopped! If those files hit the federal docket, the foundation collapses, my assets get seized, and I am looking at twenty years for wire fraud and embezzlement!"
On the other end of the line, the voice of Federal Prosecutor Marcus Sterling was calm, smooth, and laced with absolute arrogance.
“Calm down, Grant. You’re hyperventilating. You gave me millions in campaign contributions and shell-company donations over the years because you thought insurance policies like me are cheap. Well, insurance is expensive when the house is actually on fire.”
"Name your price," Grant snarled, stopping his pacing to glare out the massive arched window overlooking Lake Michigan. "Just get a judge to slap a federal gag order on Claire and her accountant. Seize the forensic files under national security pretexts. Do whatever it takes!"
“It’s not that simple anymore,” Sterling replied, his tone suddenly turning ice-cold. “My office just received a red flag from the SEC. Someone high up—someone with deep, untouchable pockets—just routed an encrypted master file containing every single shadow account you operate straight to the Department of Justice's internal integrity unit. And do you know who's backing that file, Grant?”
Grant's stomach plummeted into a bottomless void. "Who?"
“Dominic Vale.”
The phone almost slipped from Grant's sweating fingers. "Dominic? But... Dominic has been off the grid for four years! The Feds dropped active surveillance on him eighteen months ago!"
“He was never off the grid, Grant,” Sterling hissed. “He was just waiting. And now that you’ve foolishly gone after his weak spot—Claire—he’s using your own financial crimes to rip your entire life apart from the inside out. If I touch this file now, my own corruption gets exposed. You’re on your own, Grant. Burn your papers, pack your bags, and get out of the state before Vale’s people come knocking.”
Click.
The dial tone buzzed in Grant's ear like an angry hornet.
"Marcus? Marcus?!" Grant stared at the dead phone in horror. The color completely drained from his face, leaving him looking sickly gray under the luxury suite lighting.
"Grant?"
A soft, hesitant voice broke the silence. Lauren Price stepped out of the bedroom, draped in a silk robe, the stolen diamond bracelet sparkling mockingly on her wrist. Her face was pale with anxiety. "What did Sterling say? Are we ruined? What about our accounts in the Bahamas?"
Grant slowly lowered the phone, his hands shaking violently. He looked at the woman he had risked his entire empire for—the woman who represented status, youth, and ego.
And for the first time, Grant realized what an absolute fool he had been.
"Pack," Grant whispered, his voice trembling. "Pack everything right now. We are leaving the country tonight."
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"Leave? But the press conference tomorrow—"
"There is no press conference!" Grant screamed, finally snapping as he swept a crystal vase off the table, shattering it against the wall. "Dominic Vale is coming for us! And if we don't vanish in the next hour, we won't even make it to the airport!"
