Chapter 7
The boardroom of Whitaker Enterprises on the forty-second floor of the Lexington Tower was an altar of polished mahogany and leather. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the city, illuminated by the harsh, direct brilliance of the afternoon sun.
At the head of the long table sat Arthur Whitaker, seventy years old, draped in an immaculate bespoke three-piece suit, his hands resting heavily on a silver-tipped walking cane. His face was thunderous with age and arrogance. Beside him sat Elaine, wearing a silk Hermès scarf wrapped tightly around her head like a turban to hide her butchered hair, her fair skin pale with humiliated fury. Andrew sat opposite them, sweating through his dress shirt, nervously shredding a paper napkin between his fingers.
"This is an outrage!" Arthur roared, slamming his palm onto the mahogany. "A common thug's daughter attacks my wife in a public clinic, and you tell me the police won't touch her?!"
"Dad, you don't understand," Andrew stammered, his American accent wavering. "The men she had with her... they weren't private security guards. One of them was Frank DeLuca. The DeLuca family controls the longshoremen's union! If they pull the port contracts, our shipping division is insolvent by Friday!"
"I don't give a damn about the longshoremen!" Elaine shrieked, clutching her silk scarf. "Look at what she did to me, Arthur! She sheared me like a sheep! She threatened to slit my throat! I want that child taken away from her! I want Maya behind bars, and I want her trust funds seized under the marital preservation act!"
"The emergency injunction is already drafted," the family's chief legal counsel said, adjusting his spectacles. "Judge Vance has agreed to sign it in his private chambers at four o'clock. We allege gross maternal instability, association with organized crime figures, and physical assault. We'll have custody of Lucy by dinner."
The heavy, reinforced double doors of the boardroom suddenly swung inward with a concussive bang.
Two of Whitaker Enterprises' private security guards stumbled backward into the room, sprawling across the carpet.
Maya Whitaker stepped over their fallen bodies into the sunlight.
She wore no weapon, no tactical gear, only her bespoke ivory suit, her dark hair falling in soft, immaculate waves over her shoulders, her presence commanding the room like a sovereign inspecting a conquered province.
Behind her walked Frank and six heavily built men in dark overcoats, their hands resting easily beneath their lapels.
"I hear my daughter's name is on your agenda, Arthur," Maya said, her voice smooth, low, and terrifyingly clear.
Arthur rose to his feet, leaning on his cane, his chest puffing out with decades of unearned authority. "Maya! You have committed armed criminal trespass! Get out of this building before I have federal marshals drag you out in chains!"
Maya didn't even look at the old man. She walked slowly down the length of the thirty-foot table, her heels clicking in slow, rhythmic cadence against the hardwood border. She stopped directly behind Andrew's chair, resting two manicured hands on the leather backrest.
May you like
Andrew went rigid, his breath catching in his throat, terrified to turn around.
"Did you tell your father what you said to Lucy in the clinic, Andrew?" Maya asked softly, her breath brushing the back of his neck. "Did you tell him that you congratulated your mother for butchering a three-year-old child?"
