Chapter 10 - Sunday Shadows
Sunday in Boston was gray, damp, and wind-swept. A cold coastal mist rolled off the harbor, blurring the outlines of the wharf buildings and pressing against the glass windows of the Belmont Grand like ghostly fingers.
Inside my twenty-eighth-floor office, the room was littered with printouts, encrypted flash drives, and handwritten flowcharts mapping out twelve years of shell companies, dummy accounts, and wire transfers originating from Geneva and routed through various Caribbean tax havens.
Laya Morgan sat cross-legged on the leather sofa, cradling a mug of black coffee, while I stood at the white marker board tracing a red dry-erase line between Sebastian Bellini’s primary offshore trust and Malcolm Reed’s personal brokerage accounts.
“It’s watertight,” Laya said, exhaling a long breath of steam. “If we present these bank records to the federal prosecutor’s office tonight, Sebastian’s entire network will be hit with an emergency freeze order before the stock market opens tomorrow morning.”
“We can’t just go to the feds,” I said, capping the marker and turning around. “If we involve federal agents before the board meeting, Sebastian’s lawyers will slap us with an injunction claiming hostile board interference, delaying the audit for months while our stock price takes a massive hit.”
Laya frowned, adjusting her glasses. “So what’s your counter-play, Maya? Walk into a room full of old-guard directors on Monday morning and hope they take the word of a former housekeeper over Sebastian Bellini, the founding patriarch?”
“No,” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.
Roman stepped into the office. He had changed into a sharp charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-streaked hair neatly brushed, his expression carved from unyielding granite. He held a thick manila envelope sealed with red wax.
“We don't bring the feds to the board meeting,” Roman said, walking over to the desk and laying the envelope down. “We bring Victor Chun.”
Laya’s eyebrows shot up. “Victor Chun? You called him back?”
“I didn’t have to call him,” Roman replied with a faint, dangerous smirk. “Victor has been running his own independent forensic audit on the Singapore logistics chain since Thursday. He discovered that Sebastian’s shell company was the silent partner backing Malcolm’s sabotage attempt. Victor hates nothing more than being played for a fool by international middlemen.”
He looked up, meeting my eyes directly across the desk.
“Victor’s private jet lands at Logan at seven p.m. tonight. He will be sitting in the executive boardroom tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, right beside me, holding the notarized affidavit proving that Sebastian’s faction attempted to fraudulently manipulate a billion-dollar international asset transfer.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine—not of fear, but of absolute exhilaration. The trap wasn't just set; it was locked, bolted, and double-keyed.
“And Elsie?” I asked quietly, my protective instincts flaring up. “Tomorrow morning is the board meeting. I can’t leave her in childcare if the entire executive floor is going to turn into a war zone.”
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Roman stepped closer, his gaze softening as he looked down at me. The ironclad patriarch vanished for a fraction of a second, leaving only a man who understood what it meant to protect the people who mattered.
“Elsie stays with me in the private penthouse,” Roman said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “My security detail will secure the entire floor. Nothing—and no one—will touch her.”
