Chapter 9 - The Family Dinner
The invitation arrived by hand delivery on Saturday afternoon, written on heavy cream stationery embossed with the classic Bellini crest in deep burgundy wax.
Maya, Join me for dinner at the private penthouse tonight at eight. Bring Elsie—Mrs. Delgado has arranged a proper meal in the private dining suite, and we need to discuss what you found in the Annex files before Monday’s board meeting. — Roman
When the private elevator doors opened on the penthouse level of the Belmont Grand, the world below disappeared behind floor-to-ceiling glass walls that framed the glittering expanse of the Boston skyline under a canopy of stars.
The penthouse was vast, minimalist, and warmly lit by recessed amber fixtures and a sleek stone fireplace flickering with quiet blue flames. It didn't feel like the lair of a mafia boss or a cold corporate tycoon; it felt like a home stripped of all pretense, quiet and lonely at the very top.
Elsie was already happily occupied in the adjoining solarium, where a pastry chef had set up a miniature gingerbread house station complete with royal icing, colored gumdrops, and powdered sugar snow. She was wearing a tiny chef's apron embroidered with her name, chattering happily away as she slathered pink frosting onto a cookie roof.
Roman stood near the open kitchen island, wearing a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers, pouring two glasses of sparkling mineral water with fresh lime slices.
“She’s a natural pastry architect,” Roman said, watching Elsie through the glass partition with a faint, genuine smile touching the corners of his dark eyes. “She spent twenty minutes explaining to the chef why the chimney needed more gumdrop reinforcement.”
I walked over, accepting the glass of water he handed me. Our fingers brushed briefly—a cool, electric contact that made me look away quickly, my cheeks warming.
“She takes after her mother,” I murmured. “Stubborn about structural integrity.”
Roman chuckled, walking over to the leather sofa facing the fireplace and gesturing for me to sit. He didn’t beat around the bush. Once we were seated, his expression shifted, the relaxed warmth replaced by the sharp, analytical focus of a man preparing for battle.
“Laya gave me the file you pulled from the old archives,” Roman said, setting his glass down on the reclaimed oak coffee table. “Apex Maritime. Sebastian’s old portfolio.”
I looked at him, my heart tightening. “You knew about Sebastian’s old shipping accounts?”
“I knew he was ambitious,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a hard, gravelly register. “I thought when he retired to Geneva ten years ago, he took his ledgers with him. I spent a decade cleaning up our public profile, cutting ties with the old syndicates, turning Bellini Hospitality into a legitimate, transparent global enterprise. I thought the war was over.”
“It’s not over,” I said softly, opening the portfolio I had brought with me and placing it on the table between us. “Malcolm was just the front man. When he broke into the annex bindery, he wasn't just trying to sabotage the Chun deal for his own ego—he was executing a contingency clause written into the original Apex Maritime acquisition contract from twelve years ago.”
Roman leaned forward, his dark eyes scanning the documents page by page. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked in his cheek.
“If the Pacific-Rim portfolio had collapsed,” Roman said, completing the thought for me, “Victor Chun would have exercised his default clawback rights, legally seizing our primary Boston waterfront terminals as collateral penalty.”
“Terminals that are currently leased to Apex Maritime,” I added. “Which means Sebastian’s faction in Geneva would have gained direct, uncontested control over our entire East Coast logistics pipeline without spending a single dime of their own capital.”
Silence filled the penthouse. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone floor.
Roman raised his head slowly. His dark eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying intensity—not anger directed at me, but the frozen wrath of a man who realized his entire kingdom had been quietly undermined from within by his own blood.
“Sebastian is flying into Boston on Sunday night,” Roman said quietly. “He called a special emergency meeting of the senior executive board for Monday morning at nine a.m., ostensibly to ‘review the fallout of the near-failed Chun acquisition’ and demand my resignation for gross managerial negligence.”
I stared at him, the gravity of the situation crashing down. “He’s coming for the crown.”
Roman stood up, walking slowly toward the glass wall and looking out at the glittering harbor below. He placed both hands on the window frame, his shoulders broad and rigid under the black cashmere.
“He thinks I’m the soft generation,” Roman said, his voice a low rumble. “He thinks because I wear a tailored suit instead of a leather jacket, because I build hotels instead of running docks, that I forgot how the family protects its house.”
May you like
He turned around, walking back to stand directly in front of me. His tall frame cast a warm shadow over my chair. He reached down, his large, warm hand gently covering my fingers resting on the edge of the table.
“Tomorrow is Sunday, Maya,” Roman said softly, his gaze locking onto mine with an unyielding, magnetic pull. “I need to know—are you ready to help me tear down my uncle’s house?”
