The sun rose over the estate, casting long shadows across the lawn where the demolition crews had destroyed the Conservatory. Cross returned at 8:00 AM, placing a new file on the breakfast table.
“The Department of Justice is preparing subpoenas,” Cross announced, declining the coffee Isabella offered. “They want to know who authorized the illegal accounts.”
He looked at the gathered family: William, Malcolm, Isabella, and a pale, trembling Beatrice.
“They are looking at a RICO case,” Cross explained calmly. “Organized crime. That means the entire board is liable. You, William. You, Malcolm. And the wives who benefited from the proceeds.”
Beatrice let out a small sob.
“However,” Cross continued, leaning forward. “The DOJ prefers efficiency. They don’t want a trial; they want a scalp. If one person signs a confession taking full responsibility for the laundering scheme, they will close the investigation into the rest of the family. The Syndicate gets its money, the government gets its prisoner, and the Croft legacy survives.”
“A pound of flesh,” Malcolm muttered, realizing the cruelty of the offer.