Chapter 5 - BLOOD IN THE BOARDROOM
"Eric?" The name fell from my lips like poison.
Gabriel’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening into a line of pure granite. "Landon, bring the security camera feed up on the center monitor."
The massive center screen flickered, showing the heavy wrought-iron security gate at the foot of the winding driveway. A battered silver sedan was idling against the barrier, flanked by two private Cross security operatives with assault rifles at the ready. Leaning against the hood, shouting frantically into the intercom, was Eric Miller—the man who had stolen my savings, ruined my name, and left me for dead under a mountain of forged debt.
"How did he find me?" I whispered, my fingers clenching into fists.
"Julian," Gabriel said smoothly, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Julian is thorough. When he realized you were snooping around my medication, he ran your background check, found your weakest pressure point, and had his people track down your ex-boyfriend in Florida to use as leverage or a distraction."
Gabriel looked at Landon. "Bring Mr. Miller to the secondary holding room in the carriage house. Confiscate all his devices. Do not harm him—yet. Maya and I have a board meeting to attend first."
"Gabriel, you're not in condition to travel to Manhattan," Landon protested. "You haven't had a clean detox cycle."
"I am not traveling to Manhattan," Gabriel replied, pressing a button on his desk console. A high-definition, encrypted video conference system descended from the mahogany ceiling, illuminating the room in brilliant studio lighting. "I am going to appear in their boardroom as a ghost who refuses to die."
At exactly eleven-fifty-five, Gabriel sat upright in his chair, wearing a bespoke midnight-blue Italian suit, his hair neatly combed back, his posture commanding despite the paralysis in his lower limbs. For the past two hours, I had flushed his system with saline IV hydration, massaged the tension from his shoulders, and stood beside his chair as his silent, immovable anchor.
On the massive conference display, the Manhattan boardroom materialized.
Twelve executive board members sat around a forty-foot glass table. At the head of the table stood Julian Cross, holding a thick stack of medical dossiers, accompanied by Dr. David Byrne, who was adjusting his necktie with nervous, twitching fingers.
"...as you can see from Dr. Byrne’s certified neuropathic evaluation," Julian was addressing the room with theatrical sorrow, "my beloved cousin Gabriel is no longer capable of executing executive decisions. I move for an immediate vote to transfer full voting proxy to—"
"To a man who couldn't manage a dry-cleaning business without embezzling from the cash register?"
Gabriel’s voice cut through the conference audio like a thunderclap.
The entire boardroom froze. Julian whipped his head toward the central telepresence screen, his face turning an exquisite shade of ash gray.
"Gabriel..." Julian stammered, recovering his composure with a sickly smile. "You... you shouldn't be straining yourself. The doctors said—"
"Dr. Byrne said whatever you paid him three hundred thousand dollars to say into an offshore Cayman account last Tuesday," Gabriel declared, leaning forward, his gray eyes piercing through the high-resolution lens. "Landon, transmit Exhibit A through D to every board member's tablet."
Within seconds, the tablets around the Manhattan boardroom began chiming in unison.
"What you are looking at, gentlemen," Gabriel continued with icy precision, "is the forensic chemical analysis of counterfeit N-Desmethyl capsules substituted into my medical regimen under Dr. Byrne’s direct supervision, funded via wire transfers from Julian Cross's shell entity, 'Vanguard Holdings.' Along with full audio recordings of Dr. Byrne discussing the delivery schedule with Julian's driver."
Dr. Byrne let out a terrified whimper, took two steps backward, and bolted toward the boardroom exit—only to be intercepted by two burly men in plain clothes standing outside the glass doors.
Julian’s mask shattered. He slammed his palms onto the boardroom table, glaring directly into the camera. "You think you've won, Gabriel? You're still a cripple trapped in an empty house! You can't run this company from a wheelchair!"
"I don't need to run," Gabriel replied softly, with a cold, devastating finality. "Because the men I employ run for me. Federal marshals are entering the lobby of the building right now, Julian. Enjoy your afternoon."
Gabriel severed the video connection.
The room fell into absolute silence. Gabriel closed his eyes, a bead of cold sweat running down his temple as the immense physical and mental exertion took its toll on his recovering body.
He reached out blindly to his side. Without hesitation, I stepped forward and let his large, trembling hand grip my forearm for support.
"You did it," I whispered.
May you like
"We did it," he corrected, opening his eyes and looking up at me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "Now... let us go resolve your unfinished business in the carriage house."
***
