Chapter 5 - The Ten O’Clock Meeting
By ten-fifteen, the penthouse library had been converted into a temporary boardroom.
Arthur Velez sat at the mahogany conference table, his leather briefcase unzipped to reveal three heavy folders bound with red ribbons. Arthur was fifty-five, with thinning grey hair, a gold Rolex that chimed on the hour, and the mild, slightly bored expression of a man who spent his life moving zeros from one column to another.
“Roman, my boy,” Arthur said as Roman walked in, followed closely by Naomi carrying a fresh pot of coffee. “Congratulations. Fifty years of combined syndicate power. Your father would have raised a glass.”
“My father died in an alley with four bullets in his ribs, Arthur,” Roman said, pulling out his chair and sitting down directly across from the lawyer. “Let’s skip the sentiment.”
Arthur chuckled, a dry, papery sound, and slid the topmost document across the polished wood. “Always the realist. Well, business first then. This is the amended trust agreement for the children’s residential allocation. As we discussed, transferring the primary deed of the Lake Shore property to the Sloane-Romano holding company simplifies the tax liability in the event of... well, unforeseen circumstances.”
“Unforeseen circumstances,” Roman repeated. He didn't open the folder. Instead, he laid his right hand flat on the table, right beside Arthur’s expensive Montblanc pen.
“Just standard asset protection,” Arthur said, his smile faltering slightly under Roman’s stare. “Sign on page four, paragraph twelve. And the rider on page nine for the guardianship transfer.”
The door behind Arthur opened silently.
Naomi stepped into the room, not with coffee, but with a small, heavy silver tablet resting on her palm. She didn't place it on the table. She held it at eye level between Roman and the lawyer.
On the screen, in crisp 4K resolution, was a continuous loop of footage: Arthur Velez sitting in a booth at the Gibsons steakhouse three nights ago, sliding a brown manila envelope across the tablecloth toward a man with a tattoo of a coiled viper on his left wrist—one of Patrick Sloane’s top enforcers.
Arthur’s face went the color of skim milk. His hand froze halfway to his briefcase.
“What is this?” Arthur hissed, half-rising from his chair.
“Sit down, Arthur,” Roman said. His voice didn't rise above a conversational murmur, but the air in the room dropped ten degrees. “You’ve been my lawyer for twelve years. You know every corporation I own, every account I hold in Zurich, and every burial site between here and Gary, Indiana. I trusted you with the keys to my house.”
“Roman, I can explain—it’s just a routine portfolio adjustment—”
“And yet,” Roman continued, ignoring him entirely, “you forgot one fundamental rule of the logistics business. Never trust a man who leaves a paper trail, and never trust a housekeeper who doesn't check the security logs.”
Naomi tapped the screen with her nail. The video jumped to a new file: a recorded phone conversation between Arthur and Camille from two hours ago, discussing the precise dosage of a sedative to be administered to Rosie’s evening milk so she wouldn't wake up during the transfer to the Sloane estate.
Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. His hand shook so violently that his Montblanc pen rolled off the table and clicked against the parquet floor.
“You’re finished, Arthur,” Roman said quietly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “If you walk out of this building through the front lobby, Patrick Sloane’s men will kill you within twenty minutes because they’ll assume you leaked the files to me. If you stay here, I will give you twenty-four hours to board a cargo freighter leaving the port of Montreal under a false passport.”
Arthur stared at Roman’s eyes—the eyes of a man who had buried his past in concrete and didn't mind adding another layer.
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“The... the papers,” Arthur stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the red-ribboned folders. “The guardianship—”
“Are void,” Roman said. He picked up the folders, stacked them neatly, and slid them into the shredder built into the base of the conference table. The machine groaned, whined, and turned the legal foundation of Camille’s entire conspiracy into grey confetti.
