Chapter 3 - The Basement Inquisition**
By 3:00 a.m., the subterranean basement of the Lake Forest estate had been transformed into an impromptu war room. Thick, yellowed manila folders, corporate tax returns, and digital ledger printouts were scattered across a long stainless-steel preparation table. Marcus and two of his most trusted tactical operatives stood quietly by the reinforced security doors. June had been safely settled in the upstairs guest wing with a proper meal and a medical check-up, her mind still spinning from the whirlwind of the past few hours. Now, it was time to deal with the rot inside my empire. My phone rang. It was Alan Vance. He picked up on the second ring, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely unaware of the trap closing around him. “Boss? It’s three in the morning. Is everything alright with the estate security?” “Get down to the Lake Forest headquarters basement in forty minutes, Alan,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “We have an emergency audit on the domestic services payroll.” There was a brief pause on the line, just a fraction of a second too long. “At this hour? Can it wait until the executive board meeting on Monday morning, Julian? I’m currently—” “Forty minutes, Alan. Or I send Marcus and the boys to pull you out of bed in handcuffs. Your choice.” The line clicked dead. Exactly thirty-eight minutes later, the heavy metal door of the basement swung open. Alan Vance stepped inside, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair neatly combed, carrying a leather briefcase with an air of mild annoyance. He stopped short when he saw the stacks of financial files spread across the table and the cold, unblinking glare in my eyes. “Julian? What is the meaning of this theatrical setup?” Alan asked, forcing a relaxed chuckle. “ embezzling millions from my own companies is theatrical, Alan, then call it a Broadway production,” I replied, stepping forward and dropping the altered payroll ledger directly onto the steel table in front of him. Alan’s eyes dropped to the paper. The color instantly drained from his face, turning his complexion the shade of old parchment. His composure fractured, the smooth corporate mask dissolving into naked panic. “I—I don't know what this is,” Alan stammered, backing up a step until his shoulders hit the concrete wall. “These documents could be falsified—routine clerical errors—” “Clerical errors?” I shouted, slamming my hand down on the table so hard the coffee mugs rattled. “You altered June Carter’s contract! You skimmed fifty percent of wages from every low-level employee across three subsidiaries for four straight years! That’s over twelve million dollars siphoned into offshore accounts registered in your mother’s maiden name!” Alan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing frantically as he realized denial was useless. He looked at Marcus standing by the door with a heavy wooden crate, then back at me, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “Julian, listen to me. We can fix this quietly. We reallocate funds, we pay them back quietly with bonuses, nobody has to know—we keep the Blackwell name clean—” “My name was clean before you decided to use it as a shield for your greed,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “You didn't just steal money from my company, Alan. You starved children. You took food out of the mouths of babies whose mothers broke their backs cleaning my floors.” I nodded toward Marcus. “Lock him in the secure holding cell downstairs. Notify the federal prosecutor and the IRS special division. By sunrise, Alan Vance won't own the clothes on his back, let alone a passport.”
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