Chapter 7 - THE AUCTION OF SOULS
Three months later.
The St. Aurelia Hotel ballroom looked very different during the daytime.
The crystal chandeliers were turned off, replaced by the harsh, clinical glare of halogen work lights. The flower arches, silk drapes, and champagne towers were gone.
In their place were rows of folding metal chairs, a raised wooden lectern, and dozens of lawyers, liquidators, and private investors holding numbered auction paddles.
It was the court-ordered bankruptcy asset liquidation of Voss Maritime International.
Every port, every container ship, every piece of real estate, every art piece owned by Conrad Voss was being sold to the highest bidder to pay off hundreds of millions in federal fines and victim restitution funds.
I stood near the back of the room, dressed in a simple navy blue blazer and slacks, holding a paper cup of dark coffee.
Sitting in the front row, flanked by two armed federal corrections officers, were Conrad and Damian Voss.
They wore orange prison jumpsuits, their wrists bound by belly chains. Conrad looked twenty years older. His silver hair was unkempt, his posture ruined, his eyes staring blankly at the auctioneer on stage. Damian was twitching nervously, staring at the floor, unable to look at any of the former business associates who sat around them, buying up their life's work for pennies on the dollar.
"Item number 42," the auctioneer announced, his voice echoed through the PA system. "The primary corporate headquarters of Voss Maritime International, along with the deep-water port leasing rights for Terminal 7."
A murmur went through the crowd. Terminal 7 was the crown jewel of the Voss empire. It was the port Conrad had spent forty years securing.
"We will start the bidding at fifty million dollars," the auctioneer said.
A few hedge fund managers raised their paddles.
"Fifty-five million... sixty million... sixty-five million..."
"One hundred million," a sharp, clear voice called out from the back of the room.
The entire ballroom turned.
Clara Vance stood up, holding paddle number 101.
Conrad snapped his head around, his eyes wide in shock as he saw his grandson’s wife standing there with a military-backed investment consortium behind her.
"One hundred million dollars to the lady in the back," the auctioneer said, surprised. "Do I hear one hundred and ten?"
Silence filled the room.
"Going once... going twice... Sold to Vance Maritime Holdings for one hundred million dollars!"
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Conrad let out a low, gut-wrenching groan.
Voss Maritime International was officially dead. Replaced, rebranded, and bought out by the very people he had tried to humiliate.
