Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Execution
The tower of Hart & Hail Real Estate loomed over the Chicago River like a monolith of glass and arrogance.
When Victor’s Maybach pulled up to the private VIP entrance, the doorman didn't even attempt to stop us. The moment Victor stepped out of the vehicle, adjusting his charcoal suit jacket, the building manager came sprinting across the marble lobby, his face pale with sweat.
“Mr. Salvatore!” the manager stammered, bowing slightly as if greeting royalty. “We weren't expecting—that is, Mr. Hart is currently in an emergency board meeting on the forty-fifth floor—!”
“I know,” Victor interrupted smoothly, slipping his hand into the small of my back as we strode toward the private elevator. “That’s why we’re here.”
The elevator ride to the top floor was entirely silent. Every digital floor indicator felt like a heartbeat counting down to an inevitable explosion. When the doors slid open, we stepped out into the plush, mahogany-paneled executive suite where the entire board of directors was seated around a massive glass conference table.
My father, Richard Hart, sat at the head of the table, his face mottled with purple rage. Standing beside him was Derek, his hair a mess, his expensive suit wrinkled, looking like a man who had spent the entire night drinking scotch and plotting murder.
When the double doors opened and Victor walked in—with me on his arm—the room instantly imploded.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?!” my father roared, slamming his fists against the glass table and jumping to his feet. “Erecting this—this whore in my building? And you, Salvatore, you’ve crossed a line! I’ll have your shipping licenses revoked by the end of the day!”
Derek lunged forward, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “You bitch!” he screamed, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You planned this! You and this thug set me up to steal my company!”
Before Derek could take another step, Victor didn't even move his feet. His two elite guards materialized out of nowhere, grabbing Derek by the shoulders and slamming him face-down onto the glass conference table with a deafening crash.
The directors gasped, scrambling backward in sheer terror.
“Keep your voice down when you address my wife,” Victor said, his voice so quiet, so devoid of human emotion, that it chilled the entire room to absolute zero.
My father stared at Victor in absolute horror. “Wife? You’re... you’re married to her?”
“Not yet,” Victor replied smoothly, walking forward until he stood at the opposite end of the board table, resting his palms on the polished glass. “Though the paperwork is currently being drafted by my attorneys. But for all practical purposes, Mr. Hart, she owns half my empire now. Which brings us to why we’re here.”
Victor tossed a thick manila folder onto the center of the table, right in front of my father.
Richard Hart’s hands trembled as he opened the folder. Within five seconds, all the color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse.
“This... this is impossible,” my father whispered, clutching his chest.
“Federal wire fraud, illegal zoning collusion with city inspectors, and systematic embezzlement of charitable trust funds,” Victor listed off casually, pacing slowly around the table. “Every single transaction is documented. Every offshore account is frozen. As of nine o'clock this morning, the federal prosecutor’s office has issued arrest warrants for both you and your dear future son-in-law.”
Derek struggled against the guards pinning him to the glass, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeal. “Richard! Tell him to stop! Do something!”
My father slumped back into his leather chair, completely broken. He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of hatred, betrayal, and profound, shivering fear.
“Evelyn,” my father begged, his voice breaking. “We’re your family. You can’t let him destroy us. We raised you—we gave you everything!”
I stepped forward, breaking away from Victor’s side for the first time, walking slowly until I stood right beside my father’s chair. I looked down at the man who had traded my safety for real estate contracts and social standing.
“You gave me away, Father,” I said, my voice as cold as ice. “You sold me to a monster because it was convenient for your portfolio. And now, the bill has come due.”
May you like
I reached down, picking up my father’s corporate seal stamp off the mahogany desk, and tossed it into the wastebasket beside his chair.
“Consider the family business liquidated,” I whispered.
