Chapter 3 - The Fixer’s Ink
They retreated down the dark service stairs toward the kitchen, the air smelling faintly of bleach and stale coffee. Naomi didn't let go of his sleeve until they were standing beside the industrial stainless-steel island where the morning fruit baskets sat untouched.
She dropped her phone onto the butcher block. The screen was already lit, displaying a thread of encrypted messages with a contact saved simply as Velez, A.
Roman knew that name better than his own signature. Arthur Velez had been his general counsel, his tax shield, and his proxy for twelve years. Arthur was the man who made sure the police reports vanished before they reached the desk at CPD District 18.
Roman picked up the phone. His fingers, usually steady enough to thread a needle in a dim car, were shaking.
Velez, A. (1:15 a.m.): Sloane has the probate judge lined up for 9:00 a.m. Saturday. Once the marriage certificate is filed, the guardianship amendment takes effect automatically under the pre-nup rider.
Camille (1:18 a.m.): The boy is easier than the girl. The girl has her mother’s stubborn mouth. I had to keep her in the pantry for three hours on Tuesday to teach her about shadows.
Velez, A. (1:20 a.m.): Just keep Romano focused on the Indiana rail deal. Once the assets are transferred to the joint trust, the children’s reversionary rights are voided under Section 4C. If he makes noise later, we institutionalize them for acute grief syndrome. Patrick has two doctors at Mercy who owe him favors.
Roman stared at the glowing blue text until the light burned a purple ghost into his retinas.
“Twelve years,” Roman said. His voice was no longer loud; it was barely a rattle in the back of his throat. “I put Arthur’s daughter through college in Lausanne. I bought his wife that brownstone in Lincoln Park.”
“And while you were building an empire to keep them safe from the streets, you forgot that the wolves don't come through the front door with crowbars,” Naomi said. She pulled out a drawer, took out a clean linen cloth, and laid it beside his bloody cuff. “They come in through the registry office with a license and a legal brief.”
“How long?” Roman asked.
“Since she moved her clothes in four months ago,” Naomi said quietly, leaning against the edge of the steel counter. “The first week, she locked Jack in the walk-in freezer for twenty minutes because he spilled milk on her cashmere wrap. She told him that if he cried, you’d know he wasn't a Romano. The boy hasn't asked you for a hug since the first snow.”
Roman looked down at his hands—the same hands that had broken a man’s jaw behind a warehouse on Clybourn Avenue two hours ago. They were large, scarred, and completely useless.
“If I kill Velez tonight,” Roman said, “and Patrick before dawn—”
“Then Camille wins,” Naomi interrupted, her voice cutting through his dark thoughts like a scalpel. “She has four backup affidavits already notarized by a firm in Oak Brook, detailing your ‘violent episodes’ and erratic history since Isabella died. The moment you touch a hair on her head, the state takes the children into protective custody—which means Patrick’s custody. You will spend the rest of your life in a federal box or a psych ward while your children grow up in a Sloane basement.”
Roman didn't yell. He didn't smash the glass pitcher beside the sink. Instead, he reached out, picked up the linen cloth, and slowly, methodically, began to wipe the dried blood from his wrist until the white linen turned the color of rust.
“She wants a monster,” Roman said softly.
May you like
“She wants a headline,” Naomi corrected. “She wants you to provide the final proof that you are unfit. Then the empire falls into her father’s lap without a single shot being fired.”
“Then we don’t give her a monster,” Roman said. He looked up, his grey eyes clearing of the red haze that had lived behind them since he walked through the door. “We give her a partner.”
