Chapter 5 - The Fall of Howerin
By three o’clock that afternoon, the town of Halver was reeling from a financial earthquake.
At the Howerin Logistics headquarters on the outskirts of town, senior executives were running through the glass hallways carrying stacks of termination notices and asset seizure orders.
Richard Howerin, Bryce’s father, sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his hair disheveled, his expensive silk tie undone, staring at three federal auditors and four corporate attorneys in dark suits who had taken over his office twenty minutes ago.
“This is illegal!” Richard roared, slamming his fists onto the desk. “I have contracts with the state! I have union backing! You can’t liquidate my firm in three hours!”
The lead attorney, a razor-sharp woman named Victoria Vance who represented the Corsetti Group, pulled a gold fountain pen from her pocket and laid a thick contract on the blotter.
“Mr. Howerin,” Victoria said with chilly professionalism. “At 8:15 this morning, your son, Bryce, engaged in a public assault at a commercial establishment in Halver. That establishment happens to be owned by a subsidiary of the Corsetti Trust.”
Richard blinked, stunned. “Bryce? What does my idiot son have to do with this? He’s twenty-two! He was just messing around with his friends!”
“Furthermore,” Victoria continued, ignoring his outburst, “your company’s secondary shipping manifests from 2021 through 2025 were subjected to a forensic audit two hours ago. We discovered forty-two instances of tax fraud, illegal weight falsification, and unauthorized fuel dumping in the county watershed.”
Richard’s face drained of all color. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Those records were stored on an encrypted, offline server in his private basement safe. Nobody had access to them—except the state intelligence division that Alessio Corsetti had bought three years ago.
“You have two choices, Mr. Howerin,” Victoria laid out two separate document packets. “Option A: You sign over sixty percent of Howerin Logistics voting shares to the Corsetti Trust for the sum of one dollar. In exchange, the tax fraud files remain locked in our vault.”
“And... and Option B?” Richard choked out.
“Option B,” Victoria smiled coldly, “is that the FBI arrives in ten minutes, your assets are frozen by nightfall, and you and your son spend the next fifteen years in a federal penitentiary in Indiana.”
Richard collapsed into his leather chair, buried his face in his hands, and wept like a child.
Outside the building, parked across the street in the shade of a weeping willow tree, sat a black Maybach.
Inside the rear passenger compartment, Alessio Corsetti sat quietly, a crystal glass of sparkling water resting in his hand. Marco sat in the driver’s seat, watching the corporate executives scramble out of the building through the side doors.
“Boss,” Marco spoke up, looking into the rearview mirror. “Richard Howerin just signed the transfer. Howerin Logistics now belongs to you.”
“Good,” Alessio said softly. “Rebrand the company under the Shaw Trust. Appoint Ruth Anne Colby’s nephew as the regional logistics manager. Give every frontline driver a thirty percent wage increase.”
Marco smiled faintly. “And Bryce Howerin?”
Alessio’s eyes narrowed into dark slits of ice. “Ensure his university scholarship is revoked tonight. Cancel his credit cards. If he attempts to contact Delaney or her sister... execute Protocol Nine.”
“Understood, boss.”
Alessio turned his gaze out the tinted window, watching the rain begin to pitter-patter against the glass. His thoughts were far away from corporate takeovers and criminal empires.
He thought of Delaney’s small, scarred hands holding the brown envelope in the kitchen. He thought of her clear gray eyes refusing to look away from Bryce’s cruelty.
“Marco,” Alessio said quietly.
“Yes, boss?”
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“Call St. Jude’s Hospital. I want the top floor surgical suite prepared for Monday morning. And tell Dr. Ragavan that if Juny Shaw so much as sneezes during recovery... I will buy the entire hospital and turn it into a parking lot.”
“Already done, boss,” Marco chuckled. “The medical transport helicopter arrives at Delaney’s house at seven tomorrow morning.”
