Chapter 4 - THE PHANTOM ACCIDENT
The winter storm broke by Monday morning, leaving Boston buried under three feet of glittering, blinding snow. The highways were gridlocked, the airport was grounded, and the Beacon Hill estate was practically cut off from the rest of the city, accessible only by a single winding access road that hugged the steep coastal cliffs.
It was the perfect morning for a tragedy. Or so Griffin Cross believed.
At 7:30 AM, Ezra’s custom-armored black Mercedes pulled out of the underground garage, manned by his most trusted driver, a veteran enforcer named Marcus. Ezra was seated in the back, working on a tablet displaying the morning's shipping manifests.
“Everything set for the downtown meeting, Marcus?” Ezra asked without looking up.
“Yes, Mr. Cross,” Marcus replied, gripping the steering wheel as the heavy vehicle crunched over the fresh snow on the private drive. “The regional capos are waiting at the Cross Tower penthouse. We should arrive by 8:15.”
“Good,” Ezra murmured. “Keep your eyes on the road. The black ice near the coastal pass is treacherous today.”
The Mercedes glided down the winding mountain pass, flanked by towering pine trees heavy with snow on one side and a steep, hundred-foot drop toward the frozen ocean on the other.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clunk echoed from beneath the chassis, followed by a violent shudder that shook the entire vehicle.
Marcus slammed on the brakes, but the car spun out on a patch of black ice, smashing through the rusted wooden guardrail with a deafening screech of bending steel and shattering glass.
For a terrifying second, the massive black car hung suspended over the cliffside, teetering on the edge of the abyss. Then, with a heavy, sickening groan, it plunged downward into the icy ravine below, disappearing into the dense thicket of pine trees and snow.
Back at the Beacon Hill mansion, the news spread through the corridors like wildfire.
Griffin was standing in the grand drawing room when Victor Slade rushed in, breathing heavily, feigning a look of profound shock and distress.
“Mr. Griffin... it’s... it’s Ezra,” Victor stammered, his voice trembling just enough to sound authentic. “His car went off the coastal pass. The vehicle plunged two hundred feet into the ravine. Emergency rescue teams are on the scene, but... there’s no movement in the wreckage.”
Griffin dropped the porcelain teacup he was holding. It shattered against the Persian rug, dark brown liquid pooling like blood across the wool.
“No... no, are you serious?” Griffin breathed, his eyes wide, though the initial shock was rapidly giving way to a manic, uncontrollable surge of triumph. “Are there bodies?”
“The rescue squad says the car caught fire upon impact,” Victor whispered, stepping closer. “There’s nothing left, Mr. Griffin. Your brother is gone.”
Paige, who had been standing by the arched doorway listening to the exchange, slowly brought her hands up to cover her mouth. But she couldn't hide the predatory, victorious smile that curved the corners of her lips.
“Gone,” Paige whispered, a soft, breathless laugh escaping her throat. “Just like that.”
Upstairs in the nursery, little Rosie was sitting on the floor playing with her building blocks, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding downstairs. Willa stood by the window, her face pale as marble, staring out toward the snowy mountainside where the smoke was beginning to rise into the gray winter sky.
Willa’s hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. She knew Ezra Cross. She knew a man like him didn't die simply because a car went off a cliff.
May you like
And as the rest of the estate began to mourn—or rather, pretend to mourn—Willa quietly whispered a silent prayer into the freezing air.
Hold on, Mr. Cross. Don’t let them win.
