Chapter 509
Chapter 508:
“I’m refusing the premise.” Gaston walked back to the table, placed both palms flat on the granite, and leaned forward. “Frank DeLuca doesn’t get to negotiate. He doesn’t get to settle. He gets to disappear. Completely. Permanently. From this city, from this country, from any place where my wife might ever encounter his name or his memory p>
“That’s not a legal remedy, Mr. Collins p>
“It’s the only remedy I’m offering.” Gaston straightened. “You have twenty-four hours to convince him to accept it. After that, the federal investigation into his ties with organized crime becomes public. The SEC inquiry into his fraudulent billing practices follows. By the end of the week, the DeLuca name will be synonymous with criminal enterprise, and every asset he owns will be frozen in litigation for the next decade p>
Thorne stood and buttoned his jacket with precise, unhurried movements — buying time for his thoughts to settle.
M𝗼𝘀t 𝗿𝘦𝗮𝘥 t𝗁𝗂ѕ 𝗐e𝘦𝘬 𝘰𝗻
“I’ll convey your position p>
“Do.” Gaston made no move to extend his hand. “And Mr. Thorne? Choose your clients more carefully in the future. Some wars cannot be settled. Only won p>
Thorne left. The elevator ride to the lobby felt longer than it should have. He checked his phone in the back of his town car, found DeLuca’s number, and nearly dialed it.
Nearly.
Instead, he directed the driver to a steakhouse in South Philly — a place where the lighting was always dim, the back booths were soundproof, and men who had been erased from polite society could still find a corner to hide.
DeLuca was in the back room, surrounded by empty glasses and the wreckage of his local empire. His suit was rumpled, his face pale, his usual bravado replaced by the hollow look of a hunted man. He glanced up when Thorne entered, and a brief flicker of hope crossed his eyes.
“Well p>
Thorne sat. He poured two fingers of whiskey from the bottle on the table, drank it in a single swallow, and set the glass down with a deliberate click.
“He refused p>
DeLuca’s face crumpled. “He can’t refuse. He has to p>
“He doesn’t have to do anything, Frank. He’s Gaston Collins. He owns the board you’re trying to play on.” Thorne reached into his briefcase, withdrew a manila envelope, and slid it across the table. “This is your best option. Your only option p>
DeLuca opened the envelope. A single airline ticket, one-way, to a non-extradition country. And a wire transfer confirmation to an offshore account — just enough to start over, anonymously.
“What is this?” His voice was barely audible.
“A ghost’s retirement plan. You get on that plane, you never come back, you never use your name again. In exchange, the federal investigation disappears. Your family is left alone. They keep the house p>
“And if I refuse p>
Thorne leaned forward. He had represented men like Frank DeLuca for twenty years — men who believed they were kings of their small hills, blind to the mountains looming over them.