Chapter 7 - Sunrise at St. Jude Memorial
The morning fog rolled off Lake Michigan, wrapping the gothic stone architecture of St. Jude Memorial Chapel in a thick, ghostly shroud.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting pale, golden light across the empty parking lot.
Alexander’s sedan pulled up smoothly, parking directly in front of the heavy oak doors of the chapel. He turned off the ignition, stepped out into the crisp autumn air, and walked up the stone steps with measured, unhurried strides.
He didn't have to wait long.
A sleek black town car pulled into the lot, its headlights cutting through the fog. The rear door opened, and Richard Vance stepped out, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, flanked by two armed security enforcers—including the tall man with the jagged scar on his neck.
Richard walked toward the chapel steps, a cool, arrogant smirk playing on his lips.
“Alexander,” Richard called out, stopping ten feet away. “I must say, I was surprised to get your message. Most men would be cowering in a bunker after a warning like the one we left on your wedding cake.”
“You made a mistake, Richard,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously calm as he stood tall on the top step.
Richard chuckled, gesturing to the man with the scar. “A mistake? Hardly. The cake delivery was seamless. Unfortunately, your brat of a daughter got in the way. But don't worry—accidents happen all the time in large cities. A grieving father losing his daughter after losing his wife... it writes itself.”
“You killed Elena because she found out you were embezzling fifty million dollars from the foundation to fund your illegal real estate acquisitions,” Alexander stated, his slate-gray eyes locking onto Richard’s pupils. “And you tried to kill me because I was getting too close to the digital audit trails.”
Richard’s smirk slowly faded. The arrogant amusement in his eyes was replaced by a sudden, sharp spike of caution. He glanced down at his phone, realizing for the first time that his banking apps were locked out, his offshore accounts frozen, and his security team cut off from corporate servers.
“You... you locked the accounts,” Richard hissed, his face flushing crimson.
“I locked everything,” Alexander replied, taking a slow step down the stone stairs. “And more importantly, I live-streamed your confession to the United States Attorney’s office and every major news network in the country five minutes ago.”
Richard’s face went chalk-white. He whipped his head around to look at his enforcer with the scar. “Get him! Shoot him right now!”
Before the scar-faced enforcer could clear his holster, the heavy oak doors of the chapel swung open behind Alexander.
Half a dozen federal marshals stepped out onto the portico, their tactical carbines locked squarely onto Richard and his men.
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“Federal agents! Drop your weapons! Hands behind your head!” Commander Vance shouted, the red laser sights painting a constellation of crimson dots across Richard’s chest.
The enforcer with the scar froze, slowly raised his empty hands, and let his pistol clatter onto the stone steps. Richard stood paralyzed, realizing his multi-million-dollar empire had just evaporated into a federal penitentiary cellblock.
