Chapter 15 - The Altar and the Obsidian
Autumn returned to Chicago with a sudden, crisp snap that turned the maple trees along Lake Shore Drive into jagged bursts of gold and crimson.
The trial was over. Patrick Sloane had been sentenced to twelve years in a federal penitentiary in Indiana, his syndicate dismantled, his assets liquidated by the courts. Arthur Velez was three months into his sentence in West Virginia, learning what it meant to live without a fixer. Camille Sloane was living in a quiet suburban condominium in Boca Raton, supported by a modest trust fund her father had managed to shield before the final indictments came down—far away from Chicago, far away from the penthouse, and completely irrelevant to the lives she had tried to break.
On a crisp October Saturday, Roman stood in the kitchen of the penthouse wearing an old flannel shirt, stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup while Barnaby the golden retriever chased a falling autumn leaf across the balcony tiles.
Jack and Rosie burst through the front door, their cheeks flushed red from the October air, their backpacks dragging behind them on the floor like dead weight.
“Daddy! We won the soccer game! Jack scored a goal!” Rosie yelled, shedding her pink jacket onto the floor without a second thought.
“It was an assist! Jack passed it to me!” Jack corrected, slamming his backpack onto the kitchen island with a loud thud that made the soup ladle rattle against the pot.
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't lecture them about clutter or posture. He just reached out, ruffled Jack’s messy brown hair, and handed Rosie a juice box with a straw already poked through the foil.
“Good game, team,” Roman said, smiling down at them. “Wash your hands. Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
As the children raced down the hallway toward the bathroom, shouting playfully back and forth, Roman walked over to the window.
The glass wall no longer looked like a shield against a hostile world. It was just glass—a transparent pane framing the vast, beautiful expanse of Lake Michigan under a brilliant, cloudless autumn sky.
He reached up, touching his right French cuff. It was clean, soft, and buttoned loosely over his wrist. There was no blood, no steel, no shadows waiting in the corners.
May you like
The obsidian was gone. The altar was empty.
And for the first time in his life, Roman Romano was simply a father in a home where the doors were unlocked, the children were safe, and the future belonged entirely to them.
