Chapter 2 - The Call from Wall Street
Ten blocks south, in the top-floor penthouse office of Cross Global Financial, Julian Cross sat behind an antique mahogany desk that had once belonged to a Gilded Age railroad tycoon.
At thirty-six, Julian Cross was the undisputed king of New York’s shadows.
To Wall Street, he was a ruthless venture capitalist who owned commercial ports, hedge funds, and prime Manhattan real estate. To the underground bloodlines of the city, he was something far more absolute: the supreme head of the Cross Syndicate—a man whose nod could trigger a corporate bankruptcy or dissolve an entire criminal enterprise overnight.
He was a man built of broad shoulders, dark tailored suits, and a face carved from harsh, unforgiving stone. His amber-hazel eyes were cold, calculating, and destitute of warmth for almost every living soul on earth.
Except one.
His private phone on the desk vibrated with a low, rhythmic hum.
Julian picked it up on the first ring, bringing it to his ear without speaking a word.
“Boss,” came the low, urgent voice of Marcus, his head of personal security currently stationed at the St. Regis gala. “We have an incident at the hospital fundraiser.”
Julian’s posture shifted instantly. The atmospheric pressure in the massive office seemed to plummet into freezing temperatures.
“Hannah?” Julian rasped, his baritone voice sending a chill through the line.
“She’s uninjured, sir,” Marcus reported quickly, knowing better than to keep his employer in suspense for a single second. “However, a man named Trevor Langley just approached her in the main ballroom.”
Julian’s pencil snapped in half between his thick fingers with a sharp crack.
“Langley,” Julian repeated. The name sounded like venom on his tongue.
He knew the name. He knew every line of the file he had assembled six years ago when he first met Hannah. He knew about the diner in Queens. He knew about the hospital room. He knew about the boy who had left the gentlest woman in the world to bleed her heart out in a public corridor while her father died.
“What did he do?” Julian asked, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying, low silence.
Marcus took a breath on the other end. “Langley mistook Mrs. Cross for event staff. He made public comments regarding her past, mocked her former employment, made light of her late father’s passing, and ordered her to fetch drinks for the north terrace. Approximately forty guests from the Vance and Langley circles witnessed it.”
Silence stretched over the telephone line for three excruciating seconds.
When Julian spoke again, his tone was not angry. It was absolute, clinical, and chillingly quiet.
“Is my wife still in the room?”
“Yes, sir. She handled it with absolute dignity. But Langley is still boasting near the bar.”
Julian stood up from his desk, buttoning his bespoke suit jacket with methodical precision.
“Tell the hotel manager to lock the parking garage,” Julian commanded smoothly. “No guest leaves the St. Regis until I arrive. And Marcus?”
May you like
“Sir?”
“If Langley attempts to step within five feet of my wife before I walk through those doors, put a bullet through his knee.”
