Chapter 219 Smiling At My Own Execution
"If Oliver Pembroke walks into that room today, I am going to break his jaw," Tristan stated.
"You told me he died in the river," I reminded him. I fastened the clasp of my watch. The cold metal felt like a shackle against my skin. "I saw the body bag on the news. I watched the police pull his sedan out of the water."
"I saw a zipped bag," Tristan corrected. He stood behind me in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He buttoned his suit jacket. The dark, expensive fabric stretched across his broad shoulders, failing to hide the lethal tension underneath. "Diego pulled the coroner's report an hour ago. The dental records belonged to a syndicate enforcer. Julian bought the medical examiner. He faked Pembroke's death to pull him out of my crossfire."
"A rat knows how to swim," I said.
I turned around to face my husband. Tristan closed the distance between us. He reached out and grabbed my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. I rested my hands on his lapels.
"I hate watching you walk into a room filled with men who want to destroy you," Tristan confessed. His voice lacked the harsh gravel of the Johnston titan. It held a raw, desperate honesty.
"You are walking in with me," I said.
"It is not enough. I want to clear the room. I want to put Julian in the ground."
"If you put him in the ground, he becomes a martyr," I reminded him. I tilted my head up. I met his storm-gray eyes. "We need him to become a criminal. We let him put the crown on his head. We let the crowd cheer for him. And then we drop the guillotine."
Tristan searched my face.
"You are the most dangerous person I have ever met," Tristan whispered.
"You taught me how to fight," I answered.
He leaned down and kissed me. I parted my lips, tasting the heat of his mouth, letting the physical connection anchor my racing heart. I tangled my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. We stood in the quiet closet, drawing strength from the bond we forged in blood and betrayal.
We walked out of the master suite. Elias sat at the kitchen island, kicking his legs against the stool. Diego stood near the front door, a heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
I walked over to my son. I knelt on the hardwood floor.
"Are you going to fight the bad men today?" Elias asked.
"I am," I told him. I smoothed his dark hair. "But I have Daddy with me. And Diego is going to take you to the secure house by the water. You get to watch the waves."
Elias reached into the pocket of his small sweater. He pulled out a tiny, blue plastic wing from the model airplane he built with Tristan yesterday.
"For luck," Elias said. He pressed the plastic piece into my palm.
My chest tightened. I closed my fingers around the small toy.
"Thank you, baby," I whispered. I kissed his cheek. "I will bring it back to you tonight."
We approached the Symphony Hall. The Johnston Group rented the massive, historic venue for the grand shareholder meeting. Thousands of investors, board members, and media personnel choked the surrounding streets. Barricades lined the pavement. Mounted police held back the shouting crowds.
Marcus opened my door. He wore a heavy black sling over his chest, his face pale from the gunshot wound, but his eyes tracked the crowd with precision. He refused to stay in the hospital bed.
Tristan stepped out behind me. He buttoned his jacket. He placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the chaos.
The crowd near the main auditorium doors parted. Julian Whitmore arrived.
Walking right beside him was Oliver Pembroke.
Pembroke looked different. Julian stopped ten feet away from me.
"Minerva," Julian said. His smooth voice carried over the quiet foyer. "I appreciate you coming. I know today is difficult for you."
"Good morning, Julian," I replied.
Pembroke stared at me. He shifted his gaze to Tristan. The color drained from Pembroke's scarred face.
"You look alive, Oliver," I noted.
"No thanks to your husband," Pembroke spat. His voice cracked. He stepped closer to Julian’s lawyers, seeking the protection of the suits. "You tried to burn me alive."
Tristan took a single, measured step forward.
The lawyers flinched. Pembroke stumbled backward.
"If I wanted you dead, Oliver," Tristan said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated against the marble walls, "they would not find enough of you to put in a bag. You breathe today because I allow it."
"We are all civilized here, Tristan," Julian chided. He dripped with condescension. "The time for underworld tactics is over. Today is about the law. Today is about the Serrano Trust and the legitimate future of this company."
"The board prepared the transfer documents," Julian told me. "After I address the shareholders and stabilize the market, the voting committee will formalize your resignation. I saved you a seat in the front row. You can watch me take the oath."
"You are very generous," I said.
"I am pragmatic," Julian corrected. He leaned in, lowering his voice. The mask slipped, revealing the cruel, gloating scavenger underneath. "Thomas told me you were stubborn. But you are just like him. You know when you are beaten. You are handing me the keys to the kingdom because you are terrified of the courtroom."
"I am terrified of nothing," I whispered.
I offered Julian a small, polite nod. I walked past him. Tristan fell into step beside me, his hand resting on my waist.
We entered the massive auditorium.
The scale of the room was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Five thousand velvet seats sloped down toward a grand wooden stage. The Johnston Group logo glowed on a massive digital screen behind the podium.
The shareholders took their seats. The noise in the room sounded like a swarm of angry hornets. They wanted answers. They wanted blood.
I walked down the center aisle. I felt their stares. I felt their hatred. I carried the Whitmore name, the name that terrorized this company for a decade. They believed I was an infiltrator. They believed Julian was the cure.
I reached the front row. I took my seat. Tristan sat beside me. He crossed his legs, resting his ankle on his knee. He looked completely relaxed. A lion waiting in the tall grass.
Arthur Vance, the senior board member, stepped up to the podium on the stage. He tapped the microphone. The feedback shrieked, silencing the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vance announced. His voice echoed through the hall. "We call this emergency shareholder meeting to order. We are here to address the crisis surrounding the Chairman seat, the integrity of the Serrano Trust, and the future of the Johnston Group."
Vance looked down at me. Disgust painted his features.
"We welcome Mr. Julian Whitmore to the stage," Vance said.