Chapter 3 - The Family Meeting at the Precinct**
By late afternoon, the dramatic fallout of my family's criminal empire had reached its inevitable climax at the central Phoenix police precinct. Christopher and I sat across a stainless-steel interrogation table in a private conference room, accompanied by Samantha and my older brother, Gregory. Gregory looked hollow-eyed and physically ill, staring down at his hands as he tried to process the reality of what our parents had done.
"I had no idea," Gregory muttered, his voice cracking with shame. "I knew Dad was aggressive, and I knew Brianna was spoiled, but I never imagined they were stealing your identity, Clarissa. When the federal agents pulled me out of my office an hour ago, I thought it was some kind of nightmare."
"You didn't know, Greg," I said gently, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "They kept everyone in separate silos. They used financial manipulation to control all of us."
The heavy metal door swung open, and two county detention deputies escorted Benedict and Delilah into the room. They were both wearing standard orange holding facility jumpsuits, their hair disheveled, and their faces twisted in absolute fury. Brianna was not with them; she had reportedly suffered a severe panic attack upon realizing her social media accounts were locked down and her luxury assets were subject to immediate civil asset forfeiture.
"You ungrateful, treacherous little bitch!" Benedict roared, lunging forward against the bolted-on metal cuffs until the deputies yanked him back down into his chair with a sharp warning. "You actually had federal agents drag us out of our home in handcuffs over a family squabble?!"
Delilah glared at me with venomous hatred, her voice dripping with venom. "After everything we provided for you, after we raised you, you turn your back on your own flesh and blood for a stranger who wouldn't even protect your sister? You'll rot in hell for this, Clarissa."
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, looking my father dead in the eye—the exact same man who had tried to fracture my skull less than twenty-four hours earlier.
"You didn't raise me, Benedict; you managed me," I said, my tone ice-cold. "You treated me like an ATM machine, an identity sponge, and a punching bag whenever Brianna didn't get her way. And now, every single asset you own—from this estate down to Brianna's sports car—belongs to the federal receivership and my private equity fund's restructuring portfolio."
Benedict’s face turned a mottled, furious shade of purple. He opened his mouth to spew another threat, but the door opened again, and Assistant U.S. Attorney Vance stepped inside, holding a thick sheaf of formal charges.
"Mr. Grant, Mrs. Grant," the prosecutor announced smoothly. "In addition to federal wire fraud, identity theft, and pension embezzlement, local prosecutors have officially upgraded your charges from aggravated assault to attempted manslaughter given the ballistic velocity of the stone paver used against Ms. Grant. Bail has been denied across the board due to clear flight risks and offshore asset transfers."
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The color drained entirely from my parents' faces. The reality of their situation finally crashed down upon them. There were no corrupt local police chiefs to bail them out, no country club sponsors to sweep the scandal under the rug, and no amount of wealth left to buy their way out of a federal penitentiary.
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