The morning sun did nothing to warm the boardroom of Croft Tower. Sebastian Cross sat at the head of the table, his silver laptop replaced by a thick, black file folder.
William and Malcolm sat opposite him. They were exhausted, still wearing the tuxedos from the night before, stripped of their ties.
“The gala was a charming effort,” Cross began, his voice smooth. “But I’m afraid the music has stopped.”
He slid the file across the mahogany table. It hit with a heavy thud.
“I’ve finished reconciling the Swiss accounts,” Cross said. “Your father didn’t just hide money, gentlemen. He borrowed it. The ‘Syndicate’ wasn’t just a criminal board; it was a creditor.”
William opened the file. The numbers were staggering. “Five billion dollars?”
“Due immediately,” Cross confirmed. “The loans were called in the moment the stock price dipped below the threshold–which happened yesterday. If this debt isn’t settled in 48 hours, the federal government will seize Croft Enterprises as collateral, and both of you will be indicted for wire fraud and racketeering.”
Malcolm stood up, his face pale. “We don’t have five billion dollars. You froze our liquidity!”
“Then I suggest you find a shovel,” Cross smiled coldly. “Because you are digging your own graves.”