Chapter 3 - The Vultures' Feast
That night, Suite 804 felt less like a hospital room and more like an execution chamber.
At eight o'clock, the storm that had been building over the Atlantic hit Manhattan with ferocious force. Heavy rain lashed violently against the double-paned glass windows, and lightning illuminated the dark silhouette of the Queensboro Bridge in sharp, blue-white flashes.
I lay in the dark room, pretending to be a corpse, while my physical body suffered its own quiet hell.
Without the heavy intravenous pain medication—which I had secretly instructed Harrison to replace with a mild saline drip so my mind would remain sharp—the agony in my fractured ribs was an absolute, blinding torture. Every breath felt as though a rusted iron band was tightening around my lungs. My fever spiked slightly, my skin burning cold and hot by turns.
At nine-thirty, the door opened.
I immediately relaxed my facial muscles, let my jaw drop slightly, and allowed my left eye to remain open by a fraction of a millimeter—a trick I had practiced during my early years as a covert military intelligence officer in the navy reserve.
Two men walked into the room.
Marcus Vance and Senator Vance.
They didn't bother turning on the main overhead lights. Marcus carried a high-end leather briefcase and smelled strongly of scotch and expensive Cuban tobacco.
"Look at him," Marcus said, stepping close to my bedside. He tapped his gold-ringed finger against the casing of my heart monitor. "The great Julian Vance. The man who made half of Wall Street shake in their shoes. Look at him now. A vegetable attached to a rubber tube."
"Is the paperwork fully executed?" Senator Vance asked nervously, standing near the door, his eyes darting toward the hallway camera viewscreen.
"The notary was paid fifty thousand in cash to backdate the signatures to last Monday," Marcus replied, pulling a heavy thick stack of legal documents from his briefcase. "By ten-fifteen on Friday morning, I will execute the secondary power-of-attorney. The board has no choice. Under Section 8 of the corporate charter, if the principal shareholder is medically incapacitated for more than seventy-two hours without an explicit living trust override, full voting authority reverts to the primary legal counsel."
"And the offshore liquidation?" the Senator pressed. "My committee needs the three million for the primary campaign advertisements by Tuesday."
Marcus let out a smug, satisfied chuckle. "You'll have five million, Senator. As long as you ensure the State Banking Commission doesn't launch an immediate inquiry into the emergency asset transfer."
"The Banking Commission is in my pocket, Marcus," the Senator spat. "Just make sure the girl stays quiet."
"Chloe?" Marcus laughed aloud. "Chloe is a mercenary. She’s already picking out a villa in Saint-Tropez. She thinks she’s getting thirty percent. What she doesn't know is that once the final asset transfer clears on Friday afternoon, her name will be attached to the primary liability shell company in Nevada. When the tax authorities finally wake up in six months, Chloe will be holding a twenty-million-dollar fraud indictment while you and I are sitting in Dubai."
I lay beneath the thin white sheet, listening to every syllable, every name, every transaction number.
They weren't just stealing my money. They were framing my fiancée—the woman who had helped them set up my murder—to take the fall for the entire financial collapse, while Marcus and Senator Vance walked away clean.
A grand, grotesque circle of venomous snakes eating each other's tails.
"What about the housekeeper?" Senator Vance asked suddenly. "Anthony said she was in the penthouse yesterday when he was going through Julian's private wall safe."
Marcus dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "The Polish girl? She doesn't speak enough English to know the difference between a stock certificate and a grocery list. Viktor checked her cleaning cart before she left. She’s harmless."
"Don't leave loose ends, Marcus," the Senator warned darkly. "Nico’s death was supposed to look like a mechanical malfunction, but the police traffic division is already asking why the brake fluid reservoir was completely empty."
"The police traffic investigator has been paid, David," Marcus snapped, his tone turning cold. "Stop worrying. Julian is braindead. The money is ours. The company is ours. In thirty-six hours, Julian Vance will cease to exist, both legally and physically."
Marcus walked over to my bed. He reached down, grabbed the corner of my cotton blanket, and pulled it down, exposing my bare chest with its ugly, purple-black bruising from the crash.
He leaned down until his face was six inches from mine. His breath smelled of bitter alcohol and stale tobacco.
"You should have shared the pie, Julian," Marcus whispered savagely into my face. "You were always too greedy. Too moral. Too proud."
He raised his hand and slapped my cheek—a light, insulting tap designed to humiliate a body that couldn't fight back.
"Sleep tight, big brother," Marcus sneered.
They turned and walked out of the room, letting the heavy door slam shut behind them.
I lay in the darkness, the faint red light of the heart monitor reflecting in my dark eyes.
My right hand slowly clenched into a fist beneath the sheet, the knuckles turning white, the pain in my chest completely forgotten beneath a wave of pure, absolute, blinding fury.
May you like
They thought I was a corpse.
They didn't realize they had just given a dead man thirty-six hours to build their gallows.
