The blinds were drawn in the CEO’s office, blocking out the Manhattan skyline. Alistair Croft sat behind the desk that William had occupied only days ago, staring at a spread of financial reports for the music division. He didn’t read them; he swept them into the wastebasket with a dismissive backhand.
He opened a secure laptop, typing a biometric key that bypassed the Croft Enterprises firewall entirely. A video link established a connection to a sterile, white room in Zurich.
“Director,” Alistair greeted the shadow on the screen.
“You are making headlines, Alistair,” a distorted voice replied. “The ‘Survivor’ narrative is polling well.”
“Sentiment is a useful tool,” Alistair said, leaning back. “The stock price has recovered. I am initiating the liquidation of the charitable foundation and the conservatory next week. That will free up the capital required to wash the Syndicate’s assets through the R&D department.”
“And the sons?”
“William is soft,” Alistair sneered. “He thinks he is protecting his family, but he is just waiting to be broken. And Malcolm… Malcolm is currently being reminded of his place.”
Alistair closed the laptop. He wasn’t back to run a music label; he was back to turn the company into a laundering machine for the global crime ring that had sheltered him for a decade.