Chapter 4 - The Art of the Ledger
The sun didn’t rise over Lake Michigan that morning; it leaked through the grey clouds like dirty grease.
By 7:00 a.m., Roman was dressed in a charcoal Brioni suit that cost more than a small car in Peoria. His hair was combed back with military precision, every silver thread at his temples slicked into place. There was no trace of the river mud on his shoes, and his cuff was clean, starched, and buttoned tight over his wrist.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the study, watching the traffic crawl along Outer Drive, when the door opened behind him.
Camille entered wearing a dove-grey Chanel dress that made her look like an heiress in a bank advertisement. Her blonde hair was pinned into a severe French twist, and her smile was as bright and thin as a razor blade.
“Good morning, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with morning dew as she crossed the herringbone parquet to press her cheek against his. Her skin felt cold against his. “You look tired. Did you have to work late at the docks again?”
“Logistics never sleep, Camille,” Roman said, turning his head just enough so her lips brushed his jawline rather than his mouth. “Neither does the future.”
She smiled, a tiny, self-satisfied twitch of the corner of her mouth. “That’s why we make such a good team. Father called from the club five minutes ago. He’s booked the terrace at the Drake for the reception after the registry. Just forty people—our inner circle, the judges, the commissioners.”
“And Arthur?” Roman asked, not looking at her.
“Arthur is bringing the final portfolio for your signature at ten,” she said, smoothing the front of her dress with hands that bore the gold thumb-ring camera. “He said there are a few minor adjustments to the asset allocation regarding the children’s education funds. Just standard legal housekeeping to ensure everything is... streamlined.”
“Streamlined,” Roman repeated. He turned around, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. “Where are Rosie and Jack?”
Camille’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second—just a micro-expression of annoyance—before her sweet maternal mask snapped back into place. “They’re getting dressed in their Sunday best. I told them how important today is for our new family. Jack was a little... clumsy this morning, but I reminded him that we don't have room for awkwardness in the Sloane household.”
“Of course,” Roman said smoothly. “We wouldn't want any clumsy behavior today.”
At that moment, the study door clicked open.
Naomi stood on the threshold holding a silver tray with two cups of black coffee and a small crystal dish of sugar cubes. Her apron was crisp, her cap straight, her eyes fixed on the middle distance with the perfect, neutral blankness of a high-end domestic.
“Good morning, Mr. Romano. Good morning, Miss Sloane,” Naomi said, her voice level.
“Set it down by the chess table, Naomi,” Camille said without looking at her. “And make sure the children’s coats are brushed before the car arrives at eleven. We don't want them looking like street urchins when the photographers from the Tribune take the courtyard shots.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Naomi said. She set the tray down, her fingers brushing Roman’s cuff for one second longer than necessary—a tiny, invisible pressure that meant stay the course.
As Naomi turned to leave, Roman said, “Naomi.”
She stopped, her back straight. “Sir?”
“Tell the driver to bring the black Bentley around to the service entrance at ten-thirty. We’re changing the route. I want to stop by the North Avenue vault before we go to the county building.”
Camille’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “The vault? Roman, we don't have time for safety deposit boxes this morning. The registrar has a strict window at eleven-fifteen.”
“It’s not for us, Camille,” Roman said, walking over to her and taking her hand—the one with the gold thumb-ring—between his own. He squeezed it just firmly enough to make the bones click. “It’s for the children’s future. I want to make sure their inheritance is locked away where no one—absolutely no one—can ever touch it.”
For a second, Camille’s breath hitched. She looked into his grey, unreadable eyes, searching for the rage she had spent eleven weeks trying to cultivate.
May you like
She found nothing. Just ice and old stone.
“Of course, darling,” she whispered, her smile returning like grease on water. “Whatever makes you feel secure.”
