Chapter 72
Emily Windsor's POV
I sent that explosive video, along with my compiled background report on the Black Serpent, anonymously packaged to Professor Douglas's encrypted email.
Once it was done, I looked at Luke beside me. His expression seemed particularly inscrutable in the dim study lighting.
"Will he believe it?" I asked.
"He will," Luke's tone was certain. "He won't trust the evidence—he'll trust you, the person delivering it. But this alone won't be enough. We need leverage he can't refuse."
He took my hand, his palm warm and dry, radiating unwavering strength. "Miss Windsor, dare to accompany me to meet your mentor and place a bigger bet?"
I squeezed his hand back, my fingertips cool. "It would be my honor."
The next afternoon, I drove Luke to Columbia Law School.
Outside the car window, old academic buildings and hurried young students passed by. Sunlight filtered through sycamore leaves, casting dappled shadows.
This peaceful ivory tower seemed worlds apart from the battlefield we were about to enter.
My emotions were complicated. The man I was about to meet had guided me into the legal profession, yet sitting beside me was the man my mentor considered prime suspect number one.
I was like a believer bringing the devil to meet God—whether the path ahead led to judgment or salvation hung by a thread.
"Nervous?" Luke picked up on my mood with his usual perceptiveness, turning to look at me.
I shook my head, meeting his gaze. "Not nervous. Anticipating. I'm hoping he'll see what I see—the real you."
Luke's eyes darkened, and a faint smile curved his lips as he reached over to ruffle my hair.
Professor Douglas's office occupied a corner on the top floor, as always cluttered with legal texts and case files, the air thick with the rich scent of aged paper and coffee.
The professor stood by the window, his back to us, the sunset painting his silver hair with a warm golden glow.
At the knock, he slowly turned around. When his gaze moved past me to Luke behind me, those wise eyes flashed with undisguised sharpness and scrutiny.
"Emily, you're here." His voice sounded calm, yet carried a hint of distance. "This must be Mr. Victor."
"Professor." I nodded slightly, breaking the frozen atmosphere.
Luke stepped forward, extending his hand to the professor with neither servility nor arrogance, yet projecting an aura powerful enough to rival this academic titan. "It's an honor, Professor Douglas."
The professor's gaze lingered on the outstretched hand for a second before he finally shook it—a brief, perfunctory contact.
"Please, sit." He gestured to two chairs in front of his desk.
No pleasantries, no small talk, straight to business—the professor's usual style.
"I received your email." Professor Douglas settled back into his large leather chair, fingers interlaced on the desk, his penetrating gaze locked on me. "The video is valuable, but it only proves Hank's collusion with the Lowe family. It doesn't exonerate Mr. Victor."
His words were direct, practically pinning Luke to the suspect list right in front of me.
I was about to speak when Luke raised his hand, lightly patting the back of my chair to signal me to stay calm.
"Professor, I didn't come here today to prove my innocence." Luke's voice was steady and composed, radiating the confidence of someone in control. "I came to propose a deal—with you, and with the FBI behind you."
"A deal?" The professor raised an eyebrow, a hint of mockery flickering in his eyes. "Mr. Victor, do you really think you're in a position to negotiate with us?"
Rather than answer directly, Luke withdrew a thin manila envelope from his suit jacket and slid it across the desk.
"Consider this my introduction gift."
Professor Douglas eyed him suspiciously before opening the envelope.
Inside was a list of names and several confidential bank transaction records.
The moment the professor read the first name on the list, his expression changed dramatically.
For the first time, those eyes that had weathered countless storms revealed shock.
Every name on that list belonged to a powerful figure in New York—some appeared frequently on federal government rosters.
The transaction records clearly indicated massive, illicit financial ties between these individuals and Nordic Shipping Company.
"These people..." The professor's voice came out hoarse.
"They're Nordic Shipping Company's—or rather, the private island project's—biggest protection network in North America." Luke enunciated each word with deliberate weight. "The reason your investigation has gone nowhere for so long is because these people have been covering their tracks from behind."
The office fell into deathly silence.
Watching the storm of emotions cross the professor's face, I finally understood Luke's trump card.
He wasn't defending himself—he was using intelligence too valuable for the FBI to refuse to earn the right to cooperate.
He didn't need the FBI's trust. He needed them to redirect their guns from him toward a larger, darker enemy.
After a long moment, the professor slowly raised his head. The way he looked at Luke had completely changed.
"What are your terms?" he asked.
"First, issue a global warrant for Hank on charges of arson and suspected involvement in multiple transnational crimes." Luke extended one finger. "Second, conduct the most thorough search of all Lowe family properties, especially that abandoned steel mill. I want them to pay for their stupidity."
"That doesn't follow protocol." The professor frowned.
"Protocol exists to solve problems, Professor." Luke's tone brooked no argument. "Right now, I'm giving you the key to solving a much bigger problem. In exchange, I need you to help me clean house. That's fair."
The professor fell silent.
He was a meticulous legal scholar, but he was also an investigative consultant desperate to tear open the darkness.
The temptation Luke offered was too great—great enough to make him break certain established rules.
His gaze shifted between Luke and me, as if searching for something.
I could feel him observing the dynamic between us.
Since we'd entered, Luke's every action carried understated protectiveness. He unconsciously kept me in a slightly sheltered position of safety, offered reassuring gestures before I spoke, and when he looked at me, it wasn't the gaze one gives a weapon—it was full of a cherishing possession he himself might not even recognize.
These details, which perhaps even I had overlooked, couldn't escape the professor's perceptive eyes that saw into people's hearts.