Chapter 6 - The Ten-Thirty Trap
At ten-thirty, the black Bentley limousine idled at the basement loading dock of the Lake Shore Drive building.
The driver, a veteran named Miller who had driven for Roman since Isabella’s funeral, held the rear door open. Camille descended from the private elevator first, her grey Chanel dress immaculate, her blonde hair shining under the subterranean fluorescent lights. Behind her came Jack and Rosie, both dressed in stiff Sunday clothes, their shoulders hunched, their eyes fixed on the concrete floor.
“Roman, darling, we really are going to be late,” Camille said, checking her diamond-encrusted wristwatch with a sharp click of her tongue. “The registrar doesn't wait for anyone, not even the head of the Chicago logistics network.”
“The registrar can wait ten minutes, Camille,” Roman said, stepping out of the elevator behind his children. He reached down and took Rosie’s cold little hand in his own large one. The girl flinched, her fingers going rigid before she realized his grip wasn't tightening to punish her; it was simply there, steady and warm.
“Daddy?” Rosie whispered, looking up through her lashes.
“We’re going for a ride, Rosie,” Roman said, his voice softer than Camille had ever heard it. “Just a short one. Before we go to the county building.”
Camille’s smile tightened around the edges like dried leather. “Roman, this is absurd. The car is waiting. Father is already at the Drake. If we delay now, the press will start asking questions about why the groom is late.”
“Let them ask,” Roman said. He guided the children toward the rear door of the Bentley. “Get in, kids.”
Jack climbed in first, sliding across the leather seat with the stiff caution of a recruit in a barracks. Rosie followed, but before she pulled her legs in, Roman bent down and scooped her up into his arms, ignoring the way her small body stiffened in reflex. He tucked her head against his shoulder, right over his heart where the French cuff was clean and white.
For a second, Rosie’s small hands hovered in the air as if waiting for a blow. Then, slowly, tentatively, her thin arms wrapped around his neck, and she let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded like years of glass breaking.
Camille’s face lost its color. Her eyes darted toward the exit ramp where two black SUVs—Patrick Sloane’s personal detail—were parked against the wall.
“Roman,” she said, her voice dropping the honey and taking on the sharp, metallic edge of a command. “Put the child down. We are getting into that car and we are going to the registry office right now. If you think you can humiliate my family—”
The doors of the service elevator behind her pinged.
Camille turned.
Three men stepped out of the car. They weren't Roman’s men, and they weren't Patrick Sloane’s enforcers. They wore dark federal windbreakers with bold yellow letters across the back: IRS-CI / SPECIAL OPERATIONS.
At the front was Special Agent Vance, a man Roman had quietly supplied with bank routing numbers and offshore ledger copies three weeks ago while Camille thought he was at a board meeting in Milwaukee.
“Camille Sloane,” Agent Vance said, pulling a folded warrant from his breast pocket as he approached. “You’re being detained for questioning regarding wire fraud, extortion, and the illegal concealment of corporate assets under the Interstate Commerce Act.”
Camille spun around, her face twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom that no camera had ever captured before. “You dirty son of a bitch,” she snarled, lunging toward Roman with her fingernails curved like talons. “You think you can outsmart my father? He owns half the judges in this county!”
She didn't reach him.
Naomi stepped smoothly from the shadow of a concrete pillar, her movements as calm and precise as a ballet dancer’s. She didn't strike Camille; she simply extended her foot at the exact right moment.
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Camille’s high heel caught on the edge of the rubber floor mat. With a sharp gasp, the future mistress of the Romano empire tripped and went sprawling across the concrete, her grey Chanel skirt riding up, her perfect French hair coming undone in a flurry of pins.
Agent Vance stepped over her, reading the Miranda rights from a laminated card without looking down.
