Chapter 6 - The Alpine Lodge
The Stag’s Head Lodge was a high-end alpine retreat located three miles down the mountain from the Caldwell estate. It was a favorite haunt for Aspen’s elite—a sprawling timber-and-stone building featuring roaring stone fireplaces, vaulted ceilings, and a private members-only lounge where business deals were quietly brokered over vintage scotch.
When I pushed open the heavy double doors of the lounge at 4:30 PM, the room was thick with the scent of cedarwood, expensive cologne, and melting snow.
Marcus Vance was sitting in a corner booth near the window, nursing a glass of bourbon. He wore an expensive tailored ski jacket, his slicked-back dark hair gleaming under the warm amber lighting. He looked confident, arrogant, and entirely unaware that his entire financial house of cards had just caught fire.
As I walked across the room, my boots clicking sharply against the polished pine floor, Marcus looked up and flashed a practiced, toothy grin.
“Ah, Richard! Finally decided to show your face,” Marcus said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Look, man, I don't know what kind of domestic dispute you and Vanessa had last night, but my phone’s been blowing up with asset-freeze alerts from the bank. You need to call off your lawyers.”
I didn't smile. I didn't take off my coat. I simply slid into the leather booth opposite him, planting my forearms firmly on the table.
Marcus’s smile faltered slightly under my gaze. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve been busy, Marcus,” I said, my voice dangerously low and steady. “Eighteen months of systematic embezzlement. Forging my signature on Westbridge Holdings letterhead. Routing four point two million dollars of my daughters’ trust fund into private LLCs registered under dummy names in the Caymans.”
The color drained from Marcus’s face so fast it looked like someone had pulled a bedsheet over his head. The glass of bourbon slipped in his hand, a dark amber puddle splashing across the wooden table.
“What... what are you talking about?” he stammered, his voice pitching an octave higher. “That’s... that’s completely insane. You can't prove—those documents were securely encrypted—”
“Encrypted by a third-rate software firm in Denver that I bought out six months ago,” I interrupted smoothly, pulling a single folded document from my coat pocket and sliding it across the table.
It was a full forensic accounting audit, stamped and certified by federal investigators less than two hours ago.
“Your signature is on the transfer orders, Marcus,” I continued, leaning in closer so he had nowhere to look except into my eyes. “Your IP address was logged accessing the internal servers. And your sister already signed a full, itemized confession this morning before the deputies escorted her off my property.”
Marcus stared at the paper as if it were a venomous snake. His chest heaved in ragged, panicked breaths. All the arrogant bluster vanished, leaving behind a terrified, small-time hustler caught in the jaws of a machine he couldn't control.
“Richard... please,” Marcus choked out, his hands trembling as he reached across the table. “We’re family—well, through Vanessa, but—look, we can make a deal! I’ll return every cent! I’ll sign over my stake in the Denver properties! Just don't send the feds after me! I’ll go to prison!”
“You aren't just going to prison, Marcus,” I said, standing up slowly and buttoning my coat. “You’re going to a maximum-security federal penitentiary where white-collar criminals who prey on children get a very special kind of welcome.”
Before Marcus could scream, lunge, or beg any further, two men in dark suits stepped out from the shadows beside the lounge entrance—federal marshals who had been waiting quietly near the door.
They hauled Marcus out of the leather booth before he could even draw another breath, slapping steel cuffs onto his wrists with a sharp, metallic snap.
“Take him away,” I commanded.
May you like
As they dragged him kicking and cursing toward the exit, drawing the stunned gazes of every wealthy socialite in the lodge, I turned around and walked out into the crisp, falling snow.
The weight was finally lifting.
