85: Chapter 85 The Vulture at the Funeral

Lawrence Astor died at the perfect time.

Or rather, he died with such artistry.

He jumped from the top floor of his own building, flattening his favorite lincoln, and incidentally smashed the stock price of Astor Bank into hell.

When the market opened the next day, the stock price was cut in half, and retail investors who had been watching from the sidelines sold off frantically as if they had seen a ghost.

That anonymous tip-off letter regarding "Russian dirty money" became ironclad evidence for the FBI.

Because of this death of Lawrence, all the dirty water was splashed onto that unlucky Russian, Ivanov.

Federal agents seized all of Ivanov's accounts, and that Russian gang, which had originally been aggressively trying to acquire the bank, was now too busy hiding from arrest warrants in the sewers of Brooklyn to care about this mess.

Three days later.

Long Island, Pine Lawn Cemetery.

It was a fitting day for a burial: gloomy, damp, and cold, with the air permeated by the scent of soil and rotting leaves.

A group of people in black trench coats holding black umbrellas gathered around the grave.

Most of them were prominent figures from Wall Street, along with those old fogies from the board of directors of Astor Bank.

The priest recited prayers in the rain, his voice indistinct.

No one cared whether Lawrence's soul would go to heaven.

What they cared about was how many planks they could salvage after this sinking ship went down.

"Have you heard?"

Director A, a bald, fat man, lowered his voice and said to Director B beside him, "Citibank seems interested in taking over, but their offer is very low."

"Low?" Director B, a scrawny old man leaning on a cane, snorted, "That's robbery! They want to swallow our trust business for pennies."

"Then what do we do? The Russians have run off, the stock price has plummeted like this, and if we don't find someone to take over, the FDIC will seize control."

"Shh... who is that?"

The crowd suddenly fell silent.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up to the cemetery gate like a ghost.

The car door opened, and a slender leg stepped out, planting itself on the wet grass.

Ava Rockefeller.

Today, she was wearing a well-tailored black cinched trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat; a black veil covered half her face, revealing only her lips painted in dark red lipstick.

Jack Martin acted as the driver, holding up a huge black umbrella and following respectfully behind her.

The woman looked like a noble black swan, head held high, walking straight to the edge of the grave through the group of vultures, each harboring their own ulterior motives.

She plucked a white rose and tossed it into the pit.

"Poor Uncle Lawrence." Ava's voice was not loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the deathly silent cemetery.

"He only wanted to preserve the family's honor, but unfortunately, he chose the wrong allies."

Director A wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped closer, a fake smile plastered on his face: "Miss Rockefeller, your presence is... such a surprise."

Ava turned around, her gaze sweeping over the group of old men.

"Not a surprise." She took off her sunglasses, revealing a pair of eyes as cold as ice, "I am here to fulfill Uncle Lawrence's last wish."

Jack Martin handed over a document at the opportune moment.

"A letter of intent signed by Mr. Astor before his death." Ava held up the document to show everyone.

"He hoped that the foundation under my name would inject capital to restructure Astor Bank."

The crowd erupted in an uproar.

"That's impossible!" the scrawny Director B shouted, thumping his cane against the ground.

"How could Lawrence have signed something like that? And that was three days ago... the stock price hadn't crashed yet then."

"It's in black and white, and it's notarized." Ava smiled, though the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Of course, I know your current situation, so I have brought a new capital injection plan. Acquiring at a 20% premium over the current stock price is already quite merciful."

"Don't even think about it!"

Director B was so angry his beard was trembling.

"You want to take advantage of our crisis? That is the century-old foundation of the Astor family. We still have a 'poison pill plan.' As long as we trigger a new issuance, your shares will be diluted into worthless paper."

"That's right, trigger the poison pill plan!" the other directors chimed in.

They hadn't done anything their whole lives except learn how to suck blood while holding onto those shares.

Ava watched the agitated vultures, saying nothing.

She simply put her sunglasses back on and turned to leave.

"Then we shall see."

She dropped this line and ducked into the car.

The moment the car door closed, Ava's queen-like aura collapsed by half.

She looked nervously at the man in the passenger seat who hadn't said a word.

Chen Mo was looking down at his phone, playing a match-three game on the screen.

"They are going to trigger the poison pill plan." Ava said, somewhat anxiously.

"If they really issue new shares at any cost, our funds won't be enough to take over the whole thing."

Chen Mo swiped his finger, clearing a row of red blocks.

"Excellent."

The game's sound effects rang out in the quiet car.

Chen Mo put away his phone and glanced through the rearview mirror at those old men still arguing in the cemetery.

"Poison pill?" He chuckled, pulling a black USB drive from his pocket—the one he had "extracted" from the servers of the Bank of Bern.

"Then let's feed them some antidote." Chen Mo tossed the USB drive to Ava in the back seat, "Or rather... a laxative."