Chapter 5 - The Glass House
By Friday evening, three days after Elena had crawled out from beneath the tablecloth at L’Orangerie, the legal war between Cross Capital and the Valente Syndicate had spilled onto the front pages of the Chicago Business Journal.
The headlines were cautious, written in the polite, indirect language reserved for wars between very rich men:
CROSS CAPITAL FACES LIQUIDITY CRUNCH AMID MARITAL DISPUTE
VALENTE HOLDINGS PURCHASES SECONDARY DEBT OF WACKER TOWER
David Cross sat in his high-ceilinged living room on Astor Street, looking out through the massive glass windows at the dark oak trees lining the street below.
The house was cold. The maid had quit that morning after two private security guards hired by Marco Valente had begun standing on the public sidewalk outside the front gate, recording every car that entered and exited the driveway.
David held a glass of scotch in his right hand, his tie undone, his crisp white shirt wrinkled at the waist.
Standing near the marble fireplace was Arthur Sterling, his lead attorney, looking pale and exhausted.
"It’s a bloodbath, David," Arthur said, rubbing his eyes behind his thick glasses. "The chancery judge granted her ex parte protective order an hour ago. You are legally barred from coming within five hundred yards of her, her legal team, or any property owned by Valente Holdings."
"She’s hiding behind a mobster!" David shouted, slamming his glass onto the mahogany side table. The crystal shattered, amber scotch splashing across the white marble floor. "She’s my wife! She was unstable before I married her! We have ten psychiatric reports from Doctor Miller—"
"Doctor Miller surrendered his medical license three hours ago," Arthur interrupted flatly.
David went completely motionless. "What?"
"Victoria Vance presented three sworn affidavits from former patients showing that Miller was receiving six-figure retainer payments from Cross Capital to write falsified psychological evaluations for high-net-worth divorce cases," Arthur explained, his voice hollow. "The state's attorney has already opened a criminal fraud investigation. If Miller goes to trial, he will turn on you in exchange for a lighter sentence."
David’s chest heaved. He walked over to the broken glass on the floor, ignoring the liquid soaking into his expensive Italian socks.
"How is she doing this?" David whispered, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and utter disbelief. "Elena couldn't even manage her own checking account without asking me for help! She didn't know how to file a tax return!"
"She isn't doing it alone, David," Arthur said quietly. "Marco Valente has put three full-time forensic accountants on your corporate books. They found the offshore accounts in Grand Cayman that you used to hide the asset transfers from her father’s estate three years ago."
David’s face drained of all color. His hands began to shake violently.
"Her father’s estate...?" David choked out.
"Julian Rossi left twelve million dollars in a private trust for Elena before he died," Arthur said, looking at David with a mix of pity and disgust. "You absorbed that trust into Cross Capital sixty days after your wedding using a forged power of attorney. Victoria Vance filed federal wire fraud charges with the Southern District of Illinois at four o'clock today."
David fell back into a leather armchair, his head dropping into his hands.
For three years, he had believed he was a master strategist. He had viewed Elena as a simple, frail girl he could manipulate, control, and drain of her wealth while keeping her locked away in a gilded cage on Astor Street.
He had never considered the possibility that the cage door might open.
He had never considered the possibility that the quiet girl who played the violin would find a wolf waiting outside in the dark.
"What do they want, Arthur?" David asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the central heating. "What does Valente want to make this stop?"
Arthur pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and laid it on the mahogany table beside the broken glass.
"Everything," Arthur said softly. "They want the house on Astor Street, the equity in Wacker Tower, the full surrender of her father’s trust, and your signed confession of financial fraud."
"And if I refuse?"
May you like
Arthur looked out the window at the dark street below, where the red taillights of a Valente security sedan sat idling near the curb.
"If you refuse, David," Arthur whispered, "you will be spending your forty-fifth birthday in a federal penitentiary."
