Chapter 9 - The Trap is Sprung
The security annex was a converted brick carriage house at the far edge of the estate, separated from the main residence by a courtyard of frozen rosebushes and wrought-iron lampposts. The interior was a high-tech nerve center lined with monitors displaying camera feeds from every gate, hallway, and perimeter fence on the property.
When Dorian pushed the heavy oak door open, Caleb was sitting at the central monitoring desk with a cup of black coffee in his hand, casually scrolling through a tablet.
Caleb looked up, expecting Noah or one of the patrol units. When he saw Dorian standing in the doorway—tall, unblinking, and flanked by Noah and two armed guards—the color drained completely from his face.
“Mr. Cross,” Caleb stammered, scrambling to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. “I... I didn't expect you back down here. Is everything all right with Mrs. Cross?”
Dorian walked slowly into the room, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers. He didn't look angry. He looked like an executioner reading a menu.
“Everything is remarkably clear, Caleb,” Dorian said, his voice smooth and dangerously quiet. He stopped three feet away from the desk, tossing a heavy manila folder down onto the glass surface.
Caleb’s eyes dropped to the folder. The red confidential seal was staring right back at him.
“You’ve been busy,” Dorian continued, stepping closer. “Routing funds through the Cayman shell companies, leaking my public acquisition schedules to Vincenzo Moretti, and keeping him informed about the personal state of my marriage so he could use it as leverage against my board vote.”
Caleb swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. He forced a thin, nervous smile, trying to salvage his cover. “Sir, I don't know what you’re talking about. That folder... that could be anything. Someone is trying to frame me—”
“Caleb,” Dorian interrupted softly. “Don't insult the eight years we’ve spent working together by lying like an amateur.”
Caleb’s panic finally broke through his thin veneer of professionalism. His eyes darted toward the exit behind Dorian, where Noah and the two armed guards blocked the doorway like a solid wall of granite.
“You can’t prove—” Caleb started, lunging desperately toward the desk drawer where a concealed firearm was bolted beneath the wood.
Before his fingers could even graze the handle, Noah moved with terrifying speed. He vaulted across the desk, grabbing Caleb by the collar of his shirt and slamming him down hard against the concrete floor with a deafening crash.
Caleb let out a sharp gasp of air, pinned beneath Noah’s heavy boot.
Dorian walked forward, looking down at the man who had sold out his empire for a syndicate paycheck.
“Moretti is waiting for your report tonight, isn't he?” Dorian asked quietly.
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Caleb groaned, blood trickling from a small cut above his eyebrow where he had hit the edge of the desk. “Go to hell, Cross.”
“Noah,” Dorian commanded without missing a beat. “Send a message to Moretti. Tell him his primary inside source has a change of heart. And tell him that tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, I’ll be meeting him down at the Portside docks—alone.”
