Chapter 3 - The Boardroom ConfrontationThe executive boardroom on the forty-third floor was bathed in the harsh gray light of a Chicago morning.
Vance Valon stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass window, swirling a cup of espresso, looking every bit the polished, immaculate corporate heir. He wore a charcoal bespoke suit, his dark hair neatly parted, a sharp contrast to Rhett’s battle-worn intensity.
When the heavy mahogany doors clicked open, Vance didn't turn right away.
“Big brother,” Vance said smoothly, turning with a confident smirk. “Marcus tells me you blew off the Castellanos yesterday. Are you losing your touch? A four-million-dollar account—"
The punch caught Vance squarely in the jaw.
The force of it lifted him off his feet, sending him crashing backward into the glass partition with a sickening thud. His espresso cup shattered across the marble floor, dark coffee staining the white rug like blood.
Vance gasped, spitting a mouthful of blood onto his collar, clutching his jaw in shock.
“Are you insane?” Vance screamed, scrambling back against the glass. “Have you lost your mind?”
Rhett walked forward slowly, his shadow looming over his brother like a executioner. He didn't yell. His voice was a lethal, low hum.
“You went to Pilsen,” Rhett said.
Vance’s eyes widened just a fraction—the micro-expression of a cornered animal. “What are you talking about? I was in Rotterdam—”
“Don't insult my intelligence, Vance!” Rhett roared, slamming his hand down on the boardroom table so hard the heavy wood splintered. “You paid Julian Voss five hundred thousand dollars to break into Isla’s apartment and steal a ledger. Why?”
Vance wiped the blood from his lip, his panic quickly hardening into a bitter, resentful sneer. He slowly stood up, adjusting his ruined tie.
“So you found out,” Vance spat, his voice rising in venom. “Yes. I sent Julian. Do you know why, Rhett? Because while you’re treating that little housekeeper like a delicate flower, she was digging through our corporate tax shelters! She found the offshore accounts. She was going to hand everything over to federal prosecutors!”
“Isla is an accountant, Vance. She managed my household receipts, not our syndicate ledgers,” Rhett said coldly.
“She was digging into the shipping manifests from three years ago—the ones involving the Valon-Castellano pipeline!” Vance laughed hysterically. “She’s not just a housekeeper, Rhett. She’s the daughter of Arthur Voss, the federal prosecutor who tried to put you away fifteen years ago before his career mysteriously imploded. She planted herself in your house to destroy us from the inside!”
Rhett froze. The room spun.
May you like
Arthur Voss.
The name echoed in his mind like a ghost story.
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