Chapter 8 - The Verdict of the Ledger
I slammed the leather-bound ledger down onto the center of the marble table right in front of the syndicate bosses.
"Inside this book," I announced, looking around at the gathered leaders, "are six years of encrypted bank records showing that District Attorney Victor Cross and Salvatore Vescari haven't just been running a protection racket. They have been stealing twenty percent of your family revenues through fraudulent compliance levies!"
A sudden, dangerous murmur swept through the crime bosses.
"That's a lie!" Salvatore screamed, standing up and pointing a shaking finger at me. "She’s a fed! She’s trying to set us up!"
"Nico," Roman said smoothly. "Put the live feed on the screen."
Nico pressed a button on his handheld device. The massive projection screen behind the table flickered to life, showing a live video feed from the United States District Court in Chicago.
Federal Judge Sarah Lawson sat at her bench, surrounded by federal marshals and DOJ prosecutors.
"As of 8:15 PM," Judge Lawson’s voice broadcast clearly through the boardroom speakers, "the court has authenticated the digital and physical evidence provided by Elena Marlowe regarding the murder of Special Agent Thomas Marlowe and the systemic corruption of the District Attorney's Office. Warrants have been issued for the immediate arrest of Victor Cross and Salvatore Vescari under federal RICO statutes."
Victor Cross turned pale as paper. He backed away toward the curtained balcony window, reaching frantically into his tuxedo coat for a concealed firearm.
"Don't do it, Victor," I said softly, drawing my own handgun and pointing it straight at his chest before he could clear his holster.
The entire boardroom went dead quiet.
Cross looked down the barrel of Thomas Marlowe's daughter's gun, seeing the absolute, unyielding justice shining in my eyes. His hand froze inside his coat.
"You're just like your father," Cross rasped, his voice trembling with pathetic cowardice. "Relentless. Arrogant."
"My father was an honest man," I said, my finger steady on the trigger. "And you are going to spend the rest of your life in a federal box."
Roman stepped beside me, resting a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder. He looked at the surrounding crime bosses, his voice dropping into a cold, absolute command.
"Salvatore and Cross belong to the feds now," Roman declared. "Anyone in this room who stands with them dies tonight."
Not a single boss moved. One by one, they lowered their hands and sat back in their chairs, abandoning Salvatore and Cross to their fate.
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Within three minutes, the heavy doors opened again—not with explosive force, but with the steady, authoritative entrance of federal marshals led by Mateo and legitimate DOJ agents.
Cross and Salvatore were dragged out in heavy iron restraints, screaming at each other as they were led down the corridor toward waiting prisoner transports.
