Chapter 10 - Blood on the Asphalt
The meeting took place in the back booth of an unassuming diner in the West Loop, far from the cameras, the paparazzi, and the corporate boardrooms.
Logan Cross sat across from me, nursing a cup of black coffee. He was in his mid-forties, with sharp hazel eyes, a rugged jawline shadowed with graying stubble, and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen twenty years of Chicago winters. He had the watchful, calculated posture of a man who never sat with his back to a door.
“I watched the gala footage,” Cross said, his voice deep and raspy from years of cheap cigarettes. “You’ve got guts, kid. Most people would have taken the settlement and stayed dead.”
“I’m not a kid, Logan,” I answered, sliding the cassette tape across the Formica table. “And Julian didn't offer a settlement. He offered an eviction.”
Cross picked up the cassette, his eyes widening slightly as he read Anthony Sterling’s handwritten label. “Where did you find this?”
“Julian’s private vault behind the bookcase in the penthouse,” I replied. “My father had this recorded forty-eight hours before the crash on Lake Shore Drive. What really happened that night, Logan? The police report said his brakes failed on the icy road.”
Cross leaned forward, his expression hardening. “Your father’s brakes didn't fail, Aletta. They were tampered with. The hydraulic lines were cleanly sliced with an industrial cutter—not ruptured, not corroded. I found the traces of brake fluid in the chassis during the impound inspection.”
My stomach churned, a cold wave of sickness washing over me. Hearing it confirmed out loud was a hundred times worse than suspecting it.
“Why didn't you go to the press?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly.
“I tried,” Cross said bitterly. “I took the mechanical report to the deputy superintendent. The next morning, the report vanished from the evidence room. Two days later, internal affairs found ten thousand dollars of dirty cash planted in my locker. I was suspended, disgraced, and kicked off the force within a week. Harrow had the department in his pocket. He bought off everyone from the coroner to the city prosecutors.”
“Not anymore,” I said, leaning in. “Julian’s money is frozen. His political allies are running for cover. The only thing keeping him alive is this Vanguard Syndicate.”
Cross’s demeanor changed instantly. He set down his coffee cup, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Vanguard? Julian is working with Vanguard?”
“You know them?”
“Everyone in deep-level intelligence knows Vanguard,” Cross whispered, glancing toward the diner’s front entrance. “They aren't just an investment fund, Aletta. They’re an international clearinghouse for dirty capital—weapons, private military contracts, state-sponsored corporate takeovers. If Julian borrowed fifty million from Vanguard and lost control of Sterling Global, he isn't just in legal trouble. He’s a dead man walking unless he delivers your company to them.”
Before I could reply, my phone vibrated furiously on the table.
It was an alert from the security team stationed at the Gold Coast tower. Reyes’s urgent voice came over the speaker the moment I answered:
“Ms. Sterling, Julian just arrived at the building with a court order! He’s with a private psychiatric transport unit and four armed bodyguards! The building management couldn't hold them—he’s heading up to the penthouse right now to execute an emergency custody warrant!”
My blood turned to ice. “He’s trying to drag me out in restraints.”
“He thinks you’re still at the penthouse,” Reyes barked. “What are your orders?”
I looked at Logan Cross, then down at the cassette tape on the table.
“Let him go up,” I told Reyes, a cold, lethal smile spreading across my lips. “Seal the penthouse doors behind him. Do not let him leave.”
Cross looked at me, a dangerous grin touching the corners of his mouth. “What are you doing, Aletta?”
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“Julian told the world he was coming home to take care of his sick wife,” I said, standing up and grabbing my coat. “It’s time we showed him exactly who is waiting for him.”
***
