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Chapter 489
Chapter 489:
Twenty-five minutes later, Easton pushed open the heavy glass doors of the Hahn Law Firm’s top-floor conference room.
Fifteen of the most ruthless, high-priced lawyers in New York City sat around the massive mahogany table. The room fell completely silent the moment he walked in.
Easton moved to the head of the table. He did not sit. He placed both hands flat on the glass surface, leaned forward, and let the full weight of his authority fill the room.
“The objective is the Beasley family,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner. “I want them completely dismantled — not just financially. I want them legally eradicated p>
He picked up a thick manila folder from the table and tossed it into the center.
“My private investigators have been tracking the financial trails related to the Erickson family car crash for weeks,” Easton said. “While a direct link to a hitman has not yet been established, the money laundering we uncovered is more than sufficient to bury them. That file contains undeniable proof of Richard Beasley’s offshore tax evasion, wire fraud, and embezzlement from his own corporate clients p>
A senior partner adjusted his glasses. “Easton, this is a massive undertaking. The billable hours alone will be astronomical. Who is the client funding this p>
Easton’s eyes darkened. “There is no client. This is a personal matter. All expenses and billable hours will be deducted directly from my year-end equity distribution p>
A murmur of shock rippled through the room. Easton was volunteering to burn millions of his own money to destroy a mid-tier family.
“I want an emergency ex parte motion filed in federal court within the hour,” he continued, ignoring their reaction. “I want a complete freeze on all their personal and corporate assets. I want their bank accounts locked and their passports flagged p>
He swept his gaze around the table, making eye contact with every person in the room.
𝘕еw 𝘸𝘦𝗲k𝘭𝘺 𝘤hаp𝗍𝖾𝘳𝘀 oո
“And I want the criminal evidence hand-delivered to the FBI field office in lower Manhattan,” Easton finished, his voice dropping to a quiet, lethal register. “I want Richard Beasley in handcuffs before the sun goes down p>
The lawyers lunged for the files. The room erupted into a coordinated frenzy of high-level legal warfare.
Easton turned and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked out over the sprawling concrete expanse of the city and adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses.
Cole Compton believed he could punish the Beasleys by cutting off their money. But Easton had no interest in their money. He was going to take their freedom. He was going to put them in a cage — exactly where they belonged.
Miles away, on the Upper East Side, the quiet afternoon was shattered without warning by the wail of sirens.
Three black SUVs bearing federal government plates jumped the curb and slammed to a halt directly in front of the Beasley mansion’s wrought-iron gates.
A dozen FBI agents in tactical windbreakers poured out of the vehicles. They did not ring the bell. They produced heavy bolt cutters and snapped the chain on the gate in a single, clean motion.