Chapter 5 - Unraveling Fourteen Years
By nine o’clock that night, the rain had intensified into a howling gale that battered the high arched windows of Gabriel’s private study.
Gabriel sat behind his heavy mahogany desk. Across from him sat Marcus Vance—a brilliant, fiercely independent forensic auditor whom Gabriel had flown in on a private jet from New York two hours prior.
On the desk between them lay four thick leather binders, three encrypted hard drives, and the black leather envelope Lucy had helped recover.
Marcus adjusted her sharp wire-rimmed glasses, tapping her stylus against a tablet displaying complex financial flowcharts.
“It’s bad, Gabriel,” Marcus said, her voice dry and clinical. “Worse than you thought.”
Gabriel poured two fingers of aged scotch into a crystal glass but didn't drink it. “Show me.”
“Evan Cross didn't just start skimming money recently,” Marcus explained, turning her screen toward him. “He established a secondary shadow network inside Rowan Freight eleven years ago. Two years after you brought him in as your second-in-command.”
Gabriel felt the words hit him like physical blows. Eleven years.
“How did he hide it?” Gabriel asked coldly.
“He used a network of fake subcontracting firms for dock maintenance, fuel distribution, and hull repairs across all five Great Lakes ports,” Marcus said, scrolling through hundreds of fraudulent invoices. “Every month, roughly eight percent of Rowan Freight’s gross revenue was funneled into these shell companies. Total diverted funds over eleven years? Roughly two hundred and forty million dollars.”
Gabriel’s hand tightened around the glass until his knuckles turned white. “Where did the money go?”
“Half went to Moretti’s offshore accounts in Nassau,” Marcus replied. “The other half... went into a private trust registered in Zurich under Evan’s sister’s maiden name.”
Marcus paused, taking a deep breath before looking up at Gabriel with quiet sympathy.
“There’s something else, Gabriel.”
“Speak.”
“I ran a historical trace on the supply contracts for the old South Side warehouse—the one that was firebombed seven years ago during the war with the Genovese faction.”
Gabriel’s breath hitched in his throat. That firebombing was the defining tragedy of his life. His mentor, Salvatore Rossi—the man who had plucked Gabriel out of the streets and raised him like a son—had been inside that warehouse when it exploded. That death was the catalyst that had forced Gabriel to take total control of the syndicate and push for legitimacy.
“What about the warehouse?” Gabriel asked, his voice dropping into a register so dark it chilled the room.
“The security logs for the warehouse weren't wiped by the Genovese family,” Marcus said softly. “The remote security override that disabled the fire suppression system ten minutes before the bomb detonated came from an IP address inside this mansion.”
She slid a printout across the desk.
At the top of the page was the terminal ID: E. CROSS – EXECUTIVE OFFICE.
Gabriel stared at the paper. The world around him seemed to lose all sound. The howling wind outside, the crackle of the fireplace, the ticking of the grandfather clock—everything vanished into a suffocating, terrifying vacuum.
Evan hadn't just betrayed him today.
Evan had murdered Salvatore seven years ago to create a crisis—a crisis that forced Gabriel to seize power and rely entirely on Evan to manage the complex financial web of Rowan Freight. Evan had orchestrated the entire tragedy of Gabriel’s life, playing the loyal, protective brother while standing on the ashes of the man who had raised them.
A quiet knock at the door shattered the silence.
Viktor stepped into the room, wet with rain, his face grim.
“Boss,” Viktor whispered. “Evan realized the guest house is on lockdown. He’s asking to see you. He says he knows you took the black file from Nolan.”
Gabriel stood up slowly. He didn't look angry. He didn't look mad. The grief and shock that had filled his eyes seconds ago had burned away entirely, leaving behind an absolute, terrifying vacuum of pure, lethal resolve.
“Tell him I’ll meet him at Pier 42 at midnight,” Gabriel said.
May you like
Viktor blinked, startled. “Pier 42? The abandoned salt terminal?”
“Yes,” Gabriel replied, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a heavy, custom-engraved steel pistol. He checked the magazine with a single, practiced click. “Tell him to bring Moretti. Tell him we’re going to finalize the transition tonight.”
