Chapter 5 - The Call from the East Coast
I didn't release Arthur’s collar. I let him slide down the glass until his knees hit the marble floor, gasping and coughing for oxygen like a drowning man dragged from the river.
“Put it on speaker,” I commanded the intercom, keeping my eyes fixed on Arthur.
A heavy, static-laced click echoed through the foyer, followed by the deep, gravelly, unmistakable voice of Patrick Sloane—the patriarch whose criminal empire supposedly controlled half the eastern seaboard and every major route into Chicago.
“Roman,” Patrick’s voice boomed through the speaker, cold and commanding. “I hear your little household is experiencing some friction. Put Arthur on the phone.”
Arthur lifted his head, his eyes widening with desperate hope as he recognized his boss’s voice. “Patrick! Patrick, he’s going to kill me—get me out of here, Patrick, he’s got the whole estate locked down—”
“Shut up, you incompetent fool,” Patrick snapped over the line, the casual cruelty in his tone freezing the room. “You let a civilian housekeeper record your entire operation on a cell phone? You deserve whatever Roman does to you.”
Arthur’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Patrick... after everything I built for you—”
“You built nothing, Arthur. You were an expense ledger,” Patrick replied coldly. Then his attention shifted back to the intercom. “Listen to me, Roman. Let Arthur and Camille walk out of that penthouse. Send them down with the files. In exchange, I’ll let you keep your children, and I won't turn the full weight of the commission against your shipping ports.”
I let out a low, humorless laugh that echoed off the cold marble walls.
“Patrick,” I said, my voice deadly and steady. “You think you’re holding all the cards because you own the judges and the ports.”
“I know I am,” Patrick retorted smoothly.
“You forgot one thing,” I replied, stepping over Arthur’s trembling body and walking right up to the intercom speaker.
“And what’s that?”
“I don't play politics anymore,” I whispered, my knuckles white against the metal casing. “Tell your men to stay out of Chicago. Because the next time one of your operatives steps foot in my city, I won't wait for a federal marshal. I’ll send you their heads in a box.”
I slammed my fist into the intercom panel, shattering the speaker into a shower of sparks and dead silence.
Arthur stared up at me from the floor, absolutely paralyzed with dread.
Behind him, Naomi quietly stepped forward, holding a heavy manila folder she had just retrieved from Arthur’s dropped briefcase. She opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper—the amended guardianship papers Camille had planned to have me sign in the morning.
May you like
She handed the paper to me, along with a heavy gold-plated fountain pen.
“You wanted to sign your signature, Roman?” Naomi asked softly. “Here’s your chance.”
