Chapter 12 - The Five-Minute Warning
The digital clock on the green room wall ticked silently: 7:55 PM. Five minutes until the live national broadcast began.
Senator Vance pressed his back against the mahogany vanity table, his chest heaving as he stared into Julian’s unblinking eyes. The veneer of untouchable power had completely dissolved, leaving only a desperate, cornered politician calculating his final, desperate odds.
"You want money?" Senator Vance gasped, his hand dropping away from the useless call button. "Name your figure. A million? Ten million? My campaign accounts have—"
"Your campaign accounts are already frozen by federal order," Arthur stated coldly, tapping the side of his briefcase. "Along with every offshore holding in the Cayman Islands registered under your mother's maiden name."
The senator’s knees buckled slightly. He caught himself on the edge of the table, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "The media... the networks are broadcasting live in five minutes. If I don't walk out that door, the scandal will destroy everything."
"That's the general idea, Senator," Marcus said, pulling a small, secure tablet from his inner pocket and turning the screen toward the older man.
On the screen was a live feed of the auditorium overhead. The camera pans showed thousands of cheering supporters packed shoulder-to-shoulder, holding campaign signs bearing the senator’s smiling face. In the front row, several prominent corporate executives and municipal judges sat chatting amiably, completely unaware of the storm brewing beneath their feet.
"You’re going to walk out that door," Julian said, his voice dropping into an icy, undeniable command. "You’re going to walk up those stairs to the podium. And instead of your speech about family values, you are going to read the confession we have queued on the teleprompter."
Senator Vance stared at Julian in absolute horror. "Are you insane? I'll spend the rest of my life in a federal penitentiary."
"Yes, you will," Julian agreed evenly. "The only variable is whether you walk to the podium on your own two feet, or whether two federal marshals carry you out in handcuffs while the cameras roll."
The digital clock on the wall flipped: 7:58 PM.
Outside the green room door, the muffled rumble of the auditorium crowd swell indicated the house lights were dimming. The introductory music began to pulse through the heavy soundproof walls, a triumphant, swelling orchestral theme designed to build dramatic tension for the candidate's grand entrance.
Senator Vance looked at the three brothers—Julian, Marcus, and Arthur—standing like an impassable wall between him and his glittering, fragile empire. He looked down at the shattered glass on the crimson carpet, then back at Julian’s cold, unblinking eyes.
"You're monsters," the senator whispered, a tear of pure rage and self-pity leaking from the corner of his eye.
May you like
"No, Senator," Julian replied, turning toward the door as the heavy steel panel began to unlock with a heavy mechanical click. "We're just the receipt."
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