Chapter 3 - THE ATTORNEY’S LEDGER
The morning sun washed over the sprawling manicured lawns of the Romano estate, turning the morning dew into a shimmering blanket of silver.
Inside the private study, the air was thick with the scent of roasted espresso and burnt cedar.
I sat across the heavy mahogany desk from my father. Noah was fast asleep on the leather sofa in the corner, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, his little chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm. The trauma of the previous night had exhausted him completely.
Dad was staring out the window, a cold cup of coffee sitting untouched between his hands.
“He’s been with us for twenty-eight years, Claire,” Dad said quietly, his voice raspy from lack of sleep.
“Arthur Bennett is a snake, Dad,” I replied firmly, leaning forward. “You saw the way he reacted when we uncovered the sanitarium paperwork. He didn't look shocked. He looked annoyed that his timeline got accelerated.”
Dad didn't argue. He knew I was right. A Mafia boss doesn't survive four decades in Chicago by ignoring his gut instincts, and my father’s instincts were screaming.
“Vinnie is tearing through Arthur’s office downtown right now,” Dad said, taking a slow sip of the cold coffee. “We’ll know everything by noon. If Arthur was in bed with Isabella, he’s going to wish he had retired a decade ago.”
Before I could respond, the heavy oak door of the study swung open.
Vinnie strode into the room, looking like a thundercloud. He dropped a heavy, metal-bound safety deposit box onto the center of the desk.
“You were right, boss,” Vinnie grunted, his face dark. “Arthur wasn't just your lawyer. He was running a parallel ledger for the Outfit’s North Side crew. He helped Isabella set up the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands three weeks after they got married.”
Dad stared at the metal box. Slowly, he unlatched the lid and flipped it open.
Inside sat stacks of cash, a passport under a false name for Isabella, and a thick, leather-bound notebook with ROMANO HOLDINGS — RESTRUCTURING stamped in gold lettering on the cover.
Dad picked up the notebook and flipped it open. The pages were filled with meticulous, cold calculations detailing how Arthur and Isabella planned to systematically dissolve our family businesses, liquidate our real estate holdings, and transfer the capital to a rival syndicate based in Detroit.
“Detroit,” Dad whispered, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. “Marcus Thorne’s crew.”
My blood ran cold. Marcus Thorne was the most ruthless, violent mob boss operating in the Midwest. If Thorne had gotten his hooks into our logistics network through a corporate coup, our family would have been slaughtered within a month.
Answer One: Isabella’s conspiracy wasn't just about stealing Noah’s trust fund; it was an economic sabotage operation designed to hand the Romano empire over to Detroit on a silver platter.
Open Two: Where was Arthur Bennett right now? If Vinnie raided his office downtown, why hadn't they caught him?
“Did you pick up Arthur at his office?” Dad demanded, looking up sharply at Vinnie.
Vinnie shook his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “His office was cleaned out, boss. The safes were empty. The staff said he left for a ‘emergency probate meeting’ an hour before we arrived.”
“A probate meeting where?” I asked, standing up from my chair.
Vinnie pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on the desk. “A closed-door hearing at the county courthouse. Judge Harrison’s chambers. He’s petitioning for emergency guardianship of Noah, claiming you and your father are both medically unfit to retain custody following last night’s ‘violent domestic disturbance’ at the anniversary dinner.”
My breath caught in my throat.
“He’s using last night’s chaos as leverage,” I realized, panic surging through my veins. “If a judge grants emergency guardianship before we can present the poison evidence, Arthur legally takes Noah out of our custody.”
Dad didn't panic. He didn't raise his voice. He simply closed the metal-bound box, stood up, and buttoned the jacket of his tailored suit.
“Vinnie,” Dad said coldly. “Get the cars ready. We’re going downtown.”
“Boss, the courthouse is crawling with federal marshals and local cops,” Vinnie warned. “If we walk in there with guns, it’s a bloodbath.”
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“We aren’t going with guns, Vinnie,” Dad said, his eyes flashing with lethal brilliance. “We’re going with a deposition.”
He looked down at me. “Claire, wake your brother. We’re going to a family court hearing.”
