Chapter 5 - The War Room
By noon, the executive suite of Cross Atlantic Freight had been transformed into a crisis bunker.
The blinds were drawn tight against the bright Chicago glare. On the massive walnut conference table, legal briefs, police transcripts, and financial audits were piled three feet high. Four of the city’s most expensive defense attorneys sat around the table, their faces grim as they reviewed the transcript of Grace’s voice recording.
Damien stood by the window, staring down at the Chicago River. He hadn't shaved. His suit jacket was discarded over a chair, his white shirt wrinkled, his tie loosened. He looked less like an untouchable shipping tycoon and more like a man waiting for a death sentence.
“Mr. Cross,” lead counsel Marcus Vance—no relation to Victoria, though a master of corporate sleaze—cleared his throat. “Let’s be entirely frank. If this audio file goes public, your criminal enterprise, your shipping contracts with the city, and your personal liberty are completely finished.”
“She won't release it publicly,” Damien said, though even he didn't sound convinced. “Grace isn't litigious. She’s quiet. She’s... she’s my wife.”
“She was your wife,” Marcus corrected coldly. “As of this morning, Clara Whitman has retained the firm of Sterling & Vance—the exact lawyers who dismantled the Sterling shipping syndicate last year. They don't want a quiet settlement, Mr. Cross. They want unconditional surrender.”
Julian walked into the room, holding a tablet with a grim expression. “Boss, we have a bigger problem. Victoria Vance is panicking. The SUV that hit Grace? It traces back to a logistics shell company funded by Victoria’s political action committee. If the police connect her to the hit-and-run, they’ll look at the municipal zoning bids she was running interference on—which means they’ll find the bribes we paid the city council last spring.”
Damien turned around slowly from the window. The knot in his chest had turned into a burning stone. “Where is Victoria now?”
“Under federal protective custody cooperation,” Julian said. “The feds picked her up an hour ago at O’Hare trying to board a private flight to Zurich. She’s already singing to save her own skin. She told them everything about the kickbacks, the offshore accounts, and the hit-and-run.”
A heavy silence fell over the war room.
The lawyers began packing their briefcases with trembling hands. In less than twelve hours, Damien Cross’s entire universe had disintegrated. Not because of a federal indictment. Not because of a rival cartel.
Because he had let his pregnant wife’s phone ring into the void.
“Get me a car,” Damien said quietly.
“Where to, boss?” Julian asked.
“Northwestern Memorial.”
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“Damien, are you insane?” Marcus protested. “Your wife’s lawyers have a restraining order out against you. If you show up at that hospital, the police will arrest you on the spot for domestic endangerment and witness intimidation.”
“Let them,” Damien muttered, grabbing his suit jacket. “I need to look her in the eye.”
