Chapter 9 - Dinner with the Enemy
"Jonathan Cross," I said, keeping my breath calm and measured.
A low, raspy chuckle came through the line. "I must confess, I underestimated you. Ethan was an insufferable idiot, but I assumed your seven years of playing the docile housewife had softened your teeth. Burning through two billion dollars of my liquidity in twenty minutes... that was masterfully executed."
"I have the bearer bonds, Cross," I said coldly. "I have Arthur Vance’s confession, I have Ethan in federal lockup, and I have Victoria singing to the FBI. Your shell network is disintegrating by the hour."
"Those were expendable pieces, my dear child," Cross replied, entirely unbothered. "Money comes and goes. Shell companies can be dissolved with a single keystroke. But what I hold... cannot be erased by money."
"What are you talking about?"
"Come to dinner tonight, Claire," Cross said smoothly. "Eight o'clock. 44 Star Island. Come alone, or bring your pet dog Maxwell if it makes you feel safe. But if you involve the federal authorities, the document I currently hold in my hands will be released to the press, and Zenith Holdings will cease to exist before midnight."
The line went dead.
Maxwell stood by the door, his eyes questioning. "Cross?"
"He wants dinner," I said, putting the phone down. "Star Island."
"It's a trap, Chairwoman," Maxwell immediately warned. "Star Island is heavily gated, but private estates on the water offer dozens of extraction vectors by speedboat. We can have a tactical team surround the perimeter."
"No," I replied, shaking my head. "If he wanted to assassinate me, he could have fired a sniper through my office window. Cross is an egomaniac. He wants to look into my eyes, prove that he is superior to my father, and force me to surrender on his terms."
"Then what are our orders?"
"We go," I said, my jaw clenching. "We bring our private security outside the gates, Julian monitors our telemetry, and you accompany me inside. Let’s see what phantom card this dead man thinks he’s holding."
At precisely eight o'clock, our black Maybach crossed the causeway onto Star Island, Miami’s most exclusive sanctuary for ultra-wealthy elites.
The estate at number 44 was an enormous Venetian-style palace surrounded by towering palm trees, protected by private armed guards wearing black tactical gear. They checked our car, patted Maxwell down for weapons, and escorted us through massive iron doors into a dimly lit, marble-tiled dining room.
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At the head of a twenty-foot banquet table sat an elderly man in an impeccably tailored white linen suit. His hair was stark silver, his eyes were sharp and predatory, and a wicked scar ran from his right ear down into his collar—the remnants of the yacht explosion twenty years ago.
"Welcome, Claire," Jonathan Cross smiled, gesturing to the chair opposite him, where a glass of vintage champagne was already poured. "It’s been far too long."
