Chapter 7 - The Downfall of Julian Cross
By 8:00 AM the next morning, the financial markets and Boston municipal offices were in a state of absolute seismic shock.
Federal agents, acting on the whistleblower files provided by Apex Holdings, executed simultaneous search warrants across Julian Cross’s Back Bay penthouse, his suburban residence, and three regional real estate front offices.
Television news vans crowded outside the Sterling Court Hotel, broadcasting live feeds of Julian Cross being led out in handcuffs, his expensive suit wrinkled, his face covered by a legal folder as flashbulbs popped like continuous lightning.
Rowan watched the broadcast from his office on the top floor, sipping black coffee.
Dante walked into the office, tossing a thick bundle of certified deeds onto the mahogany desk.
“Cross’s defense team folded immediately,” Dante reported, a satisfied grin breaking across his rugged face. “They didn't even try to post bail. The prosecutor has him dead to rights on wire fraud, corporate identity theft, and municipal bribery. He’s looking at twenty years minimum.”
“And the captains who voted to strip my seat?” Rowan asked without taking his eyes off the television screen.
“They’ve all sent flowers,” Dante chuckled dryly. “Expensive ones. Orchids mostly. Asking for an audience to ‘clear the air’ and reaffirm their allegiance to the family.”
Rowan turned his wheelchair away from the screen, his expression returning to that cool, impassive mask.
“Tell them my calendar is full,” Rowan said quietly. “The Frost doesn't take meetings with deserters.”
“Understood, Boss.”
“And Dante?”
“Yeah?”
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“Ensure that all residential properties in the third ward—including Mave Quinn’s building—are formally transferred out of Apex Holdings and placed into an independent housing trust managed directly by her. Rent-free, indefinitely.”
Dante paused, a look of profound respect crossing his face. “Done, Boss.”
