83: Chapter 83 The Last Supper, We're Fighting for Seats

Early the next morning, Red Stone PR released a statement announcing the unilateral termination of all cooperation with Astor Bank, citing "potential legal and ethical risks that do not align with the company's values."

This statement was like a depth charge, shattering Astor Bank's already crumbling stock price.

Ten minutes after the market opened, it hit a circuit breaker.

Lawrence Astor sat behind that massive desk like a puppet whose soul had been drained away.

His phone was still ringing, but he no longer wanted to answer it.

Those were the calls from the board of directors forcing his hand.

"These fence-sitters..." Lawrence stared at the ceiling, muttering to himself, "Want to kill me? It's not that easy."

With trembling hands, he dug out an old-fashioned Nokia phone from the very bottom of his drawer.

There was only one contact.

Ivanov.

Although that Russian was greedy and his asking price vicious, he was currently the only person who could come up with 40 million in cash to fill the hole.

As long as he could survive this month's audit and keep control of the bank, he still had a chance to turn things around.

"Hello, Ivanov." Lawrence's voice was as hoarse as if he had swallowed sandpaper.

"I agree to your terms. Thirty percent monthly interest, plus that pledge agreement for the Class B shares... Bring the money."

Meanwhile, in Brooklyn.

Chen Mo was listening to a recording.

It was sent back by Jack Martin via a bug installed in Lawrence's office.

"Boss, the fish has taken the bait." Jack's voice was filled with excitement.

"Once the Russian's money hits the account, we'll report it as dirty money. Then the FBI will seize the account, and even if Lawrence jumps into the Hudson River, he won't be able to wash himself clean."

Chen Mo didn't smile.

He frowned slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop.

"Something's not right."

"What's not right?" Jack was taken aback.

"Ivanov is no philanthropist. Given the current state of Astor Bank, anyone with a brain knows it's a bottomless pit. Why would he dare to take on this deal?"

Chen Mo stood up and walked to the wall covered in clues.

He connected Ivanov's photo with the information from the brain of the deceased credit manager, Paul.

In Paul's memories, Astor Bank had always been laundering money for the Mexicans. And behind the Mexicans...

Chen Mo's pupils constricted sharply.

In the background of that photo of Ivanov, he saw an inconspicuous black sedan with a blurry logo on the door.

An Ouroboros.

"George." Chen Mo shouted.

Old George, who was sharpening a knife in the kitchen, poked his head out: "What is it? The coffee isn't ready yet."

"Check those scrapyards of Ivanov's in Brooklyn. See if there have been any strange capital flows recently, or... any connections to Washington."

Ten minutes later, Old George walked over with a tablet, his expression grim.

"You guessed right. This Russian guy is a white glove. His scrapyard just received an injection of funds last week from the Georgetown Bio-Fund, which is a shell company for Ouroboros."

Chen Mo took a deep breath.

Good grief.

The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind.

He had thought he was the oriole, but he hadn't expected a poisonous snake to be hiding behind the tree.

Ouroboros had also set its sights on this bank.

They didn't lack money; what they lacked was a legitimate, century-old financial pipeline to process those illicit funds from biological experiments.

If Ivanov were allowed to obtain the shares, this bank would completely become the private property of the "Deep State."

At that point, let alone swallowing it, Chen Mo would be crushed to death if he even touched it.

"We can't let them make the trade." Chen Mo stared at the photo on the wall, his gaze gradually turning cold.

"Then what do we do? Rob the cash transport?" Jack wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Ivanov has a team of retired Russian special forces under him. We don't stand a chance in a head-on confrontation."

"Who said anything about a head-on confrontation?"

Chen Mo turned and walked to the window. The sky outside was gloomy; a heavy rainstorm was brewing.

"Since the Russian wants to eat this dinner, we'll just flip the table."

He pulled the lighter from his pocket and clicked it on, the flame flickering in the dim room.

"Jack, go prepare a share transfer agreement. For the transferee, fill in that shell company under Ava's name. For the date... backdate it to three days ago."

"You... what are you going to do?" Jack's voice trembled slightly.

Chen Mo watched a flash of lightning streak across the sky outside the window.

"As long as Lawrence is dead, this transaction cannot proceed. And if, before he dies, he 'voluntarily' transfers the shares to us..."

"Boss, that's crazy! That's murder!"

"No, Jack." Chen Mo blew out the flame. "This is a Legacy inheritance."

He turned his head to look at Nightingale, who was sitting in the corner wiping her dagger.

"Get ready to work. There will be a thunderstorm in Manhattan tonight; it's perfect for this old bird to learn how to fly."