Mike lowered his hand and turned back toward him, all soldier now, all enforcer.
“I apologize, Mr. Vaughn,” he said in an icy voice, “but we are contracted to protect the assets and leadership of Vaughn Holdings. According to the legal documents just presented by corporate counsel, Captain Elena Vaughn is the lawful owner of this estate.”
He took one step closer.
“That makes you a trespasser.”
“Trespasser?” Calvin sputtered. “I built this house.”
“You are currently disturbing the peace and threatening the owner,” Mike said. “I suggest you stand down.”
That was the ultimate humiliation.
Calvin had finally learned that millions can buy muscle, but not loyalty.
But the night still wasn’t finished with him.
The main doors flew open so hard the hinges rattled.
A dozen people stormed into the ballroom wearing navy windbreakers with three yellow letters on the back.
FBI.
With them came agents from the SEC and IRS Criminal Investigation.
Uncle Vernon, it turned out, had been very busy.
The lead agent walked straight to the stage and flashed a badge.
“Calvin Vaughn?”
My father sagged against the podium, all fight gone.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“You are under arrest for federal tax evasion, securities fraud, and the embezzlement of forty million dollars from a protected pension fund.”
The sound of the handcuffs ratcheting shut was the loudest sound in the Hamptons that night.
Click. Click. Click.
Cold. Mechanical. Final.
Malik panicked the second he saw the cuffs. He tried to slip off the stage toward the DJ booth and make for a side exit, sweating through his shirt like a trapped animal.
