Chapter 12 - The Spring Thaw
By April, the bitter Chicago wind had finally surrendered to a warm, damp spring that turned the grass in Lincoln Park a brilliant, electric green.
The black SUVs were gone from the garage, replaced by a silver station wagon with a bumper sticker that Jack had insisted on applying himself: Caution: Children and Dogs Crossing.
Roman had spent the last two months restructuring his logistics empire from the ground up. He had divested from the gray-market shipping lines that tied him to the old syndicates, cutting ties with the dock bosses who relied on violence rather than ledgers. The organization was smaller now, leaner, and entirely legitimate—a modern freight and supply chain company that operated in the sunlight.
On a Saturday morning, Roman stood in the kitchen flipping pancakes while a clumsy six-month-old golden retriever puppy named Barnaby chased its own tail around the kitchen island, tracking paw prints across the newly laid hardwood floors.
“Daddy! Barnaby stole my sock!” Rosie yelled, running into the kitchen in her pajamas with one bare foot and a triumphant grin.
“He likes your socks, Rosie. They smell like peanut butter,” Jack said, walking in behind her with a comic book in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.
Roman flipped a pancake in the air, caught it neatly on the spatula, and slid it onto Rosie’s plate. “If Barnaby eats another sock, he’s going to spend the afternoon in the timeout corner with his plush rabbit,” Roman said with a straight face.
“Mr. Hop is my rabbit, not Barnaby’s!” Rosie protested, giggling as the puppy bounded over and licked her bare toes.
The doorbell chimed softly through the open-plan apartment.
Roman frowned slightly. He wasn't expecting any couriers, and Arthur Velez was currently awaiting trial in a federal detention facility in Indiana, while Patrick Sloane’s legal team was too busy untangling bankruptcy filings to send emissaries.
He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and walked down the long, sunlit hallway toward the foyer.
When he pulled open the heavy oak door, he didn't find a federal agent, a lawyer, or an enforcer from the docks.
Standing on the welcome mat was a middle-aged woman in a simple beige trench coat, holding a small cardboard box tied with string. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her eyes were calm and steady behind wire-rimmed glasses.
It wasn't Naomi. It was Naomi’s older sister, Clara, who had managed the accounts for the residential staff agency on the North Side before Naomi took the penthouse position.
“Mr. Romano,” Clara said, her voice polite and entirely professional. “Naomi asked me to drop this off before she leaves for her graduate classes out west.”
Roman took the box. It was surprisingly light. “She’s leaving Chicago?”
“She already left,” Clara said, adjusting her scarf against the spring breeze. “She wanted a change of scenery. Somewhere with mountains and fewer glass towers.”
Roman looked down at the box. “Did she leave a forwarding address?”
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“No, Mr. Romano. People who do what Naomi does don't usually leave forwarding addresses. They just leave things a little cleaner than they found them.” Clara offered a polite, formal nod. “Good luck with the puppy, sir.”
Before Roman could answer, Clara turned and walked toward the private elevator, her footsteps fading down the carpeted corridor.
