Chapter 7 - The Ledger's Address
The town car smelled of leather and rain. Outside the tinted windows, the neon lights of the city blurred into streaks of red and gold as we cut through the deserted downtown grid.
I sat in the corner of the backseat, my hands clamped tightly around my purse, staring straight ahead. Roman sat on the opposite side, illuminated intermittently by the flashing streetlights. He hadn't spoken since we left the loft, leaving me alone with the chaotic storm of my own thoughts.
Every choice I had made for the past twenty-four hours felt like it belonged to a different person. The girl who had poured twenty-year-old bourbon in Booth Four felt like a stranger—someone naive, exhausted, and desperately trying to keep her head above water. Now, I wasn't just drowning; I was tied to an anchor made of forged documents and syndicate ledgers.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked, breaking the silence as the car slowed down before a wrought-iron security gate.
"My townhouse," Roman answered without opening his eyes. "It's off-grid, secure, and most importantly, David doesn't know where it is. Neither does Marcus."
The car glided through the gates, pulling up to a towering, understated brownstone tucked behind a screen of wet boxwood hedges and high stone walls. It looked less like a criminal fortress and more like the home of an eccentric archivist or a retired diplomat.
Inside, the house was warm, quiet, and impeccably orderly. Hardwood floors gleamed under recessed lighting, and entire walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with heavy volumes. There was no gold plating, no flashy displays of wealth—just cold, quiet power.
Roman shrugged off his damp trench coat, tossing it over a mahogany chair in the entryway. He motioned toward a velvet armchair by a cold stone fireplace.
"Sit. I'll have someone bring you tea," he said, loosening his tie.
"I don't want tea, Roman," I said, standing my ground near the doorway, refusing to sink into the comfortable furniture. "I want to know what happens tomorrow. If my name is on a commercial lease tied to smuggled goods, the authorities are going to figure it out. Marcus wasn't bluffing about the audit."
Roman paused, turning to face me. His gray eyes were sharp, evaluating every flicker of tension in my posture.
"Marcus was half-right," Roman admitted, walking over to a heavy oak desk and picking up a silver fountain pen. "The lease is registered under your name. But David didn't file it alone. He used a notary public downtown—a man named Henderson who has been forging signatures for local grifters for a decade."
"So we go to the police," I said, a sudden spark of hope rising in my chest. "If it's forgery, handwriting analysis can prove—"
"Prove what, Nora?" Roman interrupted gently, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk. "Henderson's office burned down three nights ago. Coincidentally, right after the federal transit board flagged the warehouse manifest. Any physical paperwork in his office is gone to ash."
The spark of hope died instantly, leaving behind a cold, ash-gray reality.
"He planned it all," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Every single piece of it. He knew the warehouse was flagged, he knew the audit was coming, and he needed a scapegoat who wouldn't look like a criminal on paper—someone with clean credit, a steady job, and no family connections to cause a fuss."
"He underestimated one thing," Roman said quietly.
"What's that?"
"He didn't count on you spilling bourbon in Booth Four and shouting a pet name at the wrong man." Roman's mouth twitched into a faint, fleeting smirk.
Despite myself, a humorless sound escaped my throat. "Yeah. My romantic life has a funny way of blowing up in my face."
Roman stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off him. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, intense focus.
"David is running scared, but he's not smart enough to hide forever," Roman said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant register. "He thinks he's clever because he handed you off to my rivals. But the men he owes money to don't care about his cleverness. They want their capital back. And if they can't get it from him, they'll come looking for you."
"Then what do we do?" I asked, looking up into his eyes, realizing with a jolt that I was no longer asking for protection—I was asking for a strategy.
Roman reached into his pocket and pulled out a manila folder—not the ones from my apartment, but a fresh one bearing the crest of his own private logistics firm.
May you like
"We don't wait for them to find us," Roman said, opening the folder to reveal a series of financial routing numbers and scanned shipping manifests. "We set a trap of our own. And you are going to help me spring it."
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