Morning sunlight cut through the narrow gaps in the heavy velvet curtains of the Tarasov Estate's primary conference room, throwing sharp beams of white light across the polished mahogany floor.
Howard Finch, Senior Compliance Executive of JPMorgan Chase, sat frozen in a high-backed leather chair on the right side of the massive oval table. His face was locked in a mixture of deep gloom and barely contained anger.
Beside him sat two silent representatives from the Morgan Family's internal security division.
On the left side of the table were three senior FBI agents in dark charcoal suits. Their expressions were hard as stone.
The lead agent, Senior Special Agent Carlson, had a completely bald head that gleamed under the light.
The group had been sitting in the room for a full hour.
The long conference table was empty except for several identical porcelain cups of black coffee placed in front of each person.
Sergei leaned against the far wall, projecting the deliberate, insulting calm of a man who had decided to take a nap. He ignored the anxious, scrutinizing, and openly threatening stares coming from the federal side of the room.
"Where is Anthony Tarasov?"
This was Agent Carlson's third question. Impatience had begun to bleed into his voice.
"Or has he already left? Is he trying to avoid federal scrutiny?"
A junior Morgan security officer leaned in and whispered to the senior representative beside him. "It's possible they evacuated. Considering the mess they made…"
"Evacuate?" Carlson gave a cold, sarcastic smirk. "In New York City? Under the direct attention of the Morgan Family? Where exactly is he going to go? Dig potatoes in Siberia?"
Sergei slowly rubbed his eyes. He still didn't look up from the floor.
"My boss has no intention of running. The simple truth is that your people don't have the authority to investigate him."
He spoke with complete casualness, as if discussing the weather.
"He will still come down to see you. But he's used to sleeping late. So you'll have to wait a little longer."
"One hour and seven minutes!" Carlson slammed his palm down on the mahogany table. The sharp impact made Finch jump in his chair.
"Whose patience is Tarasov testing? The Federal Bureau of Investigation? Or Mr. Soren's?"
Sergei gave a nonchalant shrug. "You'll have to ask Finch's superiors about that. Or whoever actually runs his life."
Finch was terrified.
He was only a mid-level executive. He had no understanding of the true forces at play. He didn't even know the High Table existed, which meant he had no idea why his superiors had ordered the embezzlement of Tarasov's twenty million dollars in the first place.
He pulled out a soaked silk handkerchief and wiped his sweating forehead. His fleshy face was slick with a mixture of fear and regret.
He deeply regretted following orders. If he had known this would be the outcome, he would have quit the bank long ago.
The Morgan vault had been emptied. As the primary Compliance Executive, he was almost certainly going to be the first person sacrificed.
No… the consequences waiting for him might be far worse than simply becoming a corporate scapegoat.
The senior Morgan representative, an older gray-haired man named Soren, spoke in a voice like ice.
"Be patient, Agent Carlson. In New York City, standing against the Morgan Family… there is no such thing as 'escape.'"
Sergei looked ready to reply, but chose silence instead.
Just as the tension in the room reached its peak—and Carlson's posture shifted as if he were preparing to escalate—the heavy double oak doors of the living room swung open without a sound.
Anthony walked in.
He was not wearing a tailored suit. He wore a simple black turtleneck under a slightly worn tactical leather jacket. His dark hair was messy. He looked like an ordinary young man who had just been dragged out of a deep sleep and hadn't fully woken up yet.
He gave a long, lazy yawn, ignored the heavily armed federal agents completely, walked straight to the head of the table, pulled out the executive chair, and dropped into it. He leaned back, assuming a posture that bordered on deliberate rudeness.
He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger, and murmured in a muffled, nasal voice:
"Good morning."
Thirty seconds later, Anthony's cold blue eyes opened and swept across the hostile faces seated opposite him. His gaze locked onto Finch's bloodless face.
"Finch. Bringing your armed federal friends into my home this early to drink coffee? I'm afraid I don't have the refined espresso you enjoy in your banking lounges."
"Tarasov!" Agent Carlson shot up from his chair, voice rising sharply.
He slid a thick stack of high-resolution FBI surveillance photographs across the polished mahogany surface, pushing them directly toward Anthony.
Carlson pointed a thick finger at the face framed above a jagged hole in the concrete.
"You recognize this man, correct?"
The photographs had been taken from the hidden internal security cameras inside the subterranean Morgan vault.
The clearest image showed Vincent Cameron. His head had just broken through the structural hole. His eyes were wide. His expression carried a thin edge of adrenaline. And he was looking almost directly into the camera.
"Look at this face. Do you know him? At 12:03 AM last night, deep inside the JPMorgan Chase vault, fifteen custom corporate safes were emptied. Over ninety million dollars disappeared."
"Tarasov. This operation was carried out by your Vanguard operators!"
Finch reacted as if the photographs were radiating heat. His large body shifted restlessly in the leather chair. His rapid breathing made the buttons of his expensive shirt strain against the fabric.
Anthony slowly lowered his gaze to the photographs. He raised one dark eyebrow. His expression showed more mild confusion than genuine surprise.
"Vincent Cameron," he said with a calm nod.
"I know him. He served as my primary bodyguard until about a week ago. What happened? Did he get into some kind of trouble?"
"A week ago?" Agent Carlson leaned heavily over the table, eyes locked on the Russian. "Tarasov. Are you saying… his employment was terminated?"
"That's correct," Anthony replied with complete matter-of-factness. He pulled an expensive silver cigarette case from his jacket, lit one, and slowly exhaled a thick plume of gray smoke into the air between them.
"I suffered a twenty-million-dollar loss exactly one week ago. My mood was foul. I also no longer had the capital to maintain such a large, highly paid security detail. So I initiated layoffs. Vincent Cameron was one of the men let go."
Before Finch could speak, Carlson pressed harder. "How many operators did you terminate?"
Sergei answered from the wall without hesitation. "Mike Sanderson. Cormac Garrison. Vincent Cameron. And Wade Gordon. Four men."
The employment records and W-2 forms for those four Vanguard members were cleanly filed in the system. The federal side could verify them easily. There was no point in hiding the information.
Carlson's gaze snapped from Anthony's face down to a second high-resolution group photograph showing Vincent and the other three men in black ballistic masks.
"In other words… all four of these men were involved in the breach."
Anthony gave another lazy yawn. "You'll have to ask them about that. I have no information."
Finch jabbed a trembling, sweating finger at the scattered photographs. "At midnight last night, these four former Vanguard operators led an armed team that detonated the structural foundation of our JPMorgan Chase vault! They took nearly one hundred million dollars in assets!"
"Tarasov! This is an act of terrorism! It qualifies as an act of war!"
Anthony waited in silence until Finch's panicked shouting finally stopped. He calmly flicked ash from his cigarette.
"So?"
"So?" Carlson's voice dropped into something close to freezing.
"Tarasov. We checked the financial records. Vincent Cameron was receiving a top-tier salary while working for your Vanguard."
"And yet… he is conveniently 'terminated' exactly one week before the incident… and then immediately plans, coordinates, and executes a complex subterranean heist against a Morgan vault? The coincidence is absurd."
"The Bureau has every reason to conclude that this operation was orchestrated under your command. A deliberate act of retaliation against JPMorgan Chase Bank."
"Retaliation?" Anthony let out a soft, cold laugh. A dark trace of mockery curved his mouth. "Carlson. You need actual evidence to support that theory."
"Did your cameras capture me giving the order? Did your surveillance record me drawing the architectural blueprints for his team? You're basing this entire accusation on the single fact that he used to work for me?"
Anthony exhaled another cloud of smoke.
"By that logic… since a significant number of retired FBI agents have gone on to commit serious felonies… should the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation be held legally responsible for their actions?"
"His face was captured at the crime scene!" Finch roared, his voice cracking. "That footage is irrefutable evidence!"
"That footage proves his involvement in the robbery," Anthony said calmly, tapping the burning end of his cigarette into an ashtray. "It does not prove that I authorized the order."
"Finch. You're the Senior Compliance Executive of a major bank. You should understand the legal definition of 'personal conduct' better than I do… correct?"
Finch froze for a fraction of a second. Then his panicked expression completely shattered.
Anthony reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a carefully folded piece of high-quality corporate paper.
He placed it flat on the mahogany table and used two fingers to slide it smoothly across the long surface.
The document glided silently across the polished wood and came to a stop exactly one inch in front of Finch's trembling hands.
Finch slowly lowered his gaze to the printed text.
He felt every drop of blood in his body rush upward into his head.
Then, in a single catastrophic flash of pure terror, every trace of color drained from his face.
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