Chapter 3 - Oak Street Confidential
Within twenty minutes, Roman was dressed in a dark tailored suit, his jaw tight as he slammed the door of the penthouse behind him and took the private elevator down to the subterranean garage. He didn't go to his office. He drove straight to Oak Street, navigating the slick, damp Chicago streets as a light autumn rain began to spit against the windshield.
The tailor’s shop on Oak Street—the one Celeste had used to let out her pale gray dresses twice—was a modest, unassuming storefront tucked between a high-end art gallery and a closed boutique.
The metal security gate was half-open, and a frail elderly man inside was sweeping stray threads off the floor.
Roman pushed the glass door open, setting a small bell tinkling overhead. He stepped inside, his imposing frame instantly swallowing the narrow room.
The tailor looked up, squinting through thick spectacles, ready to dismiss an early-morning visitor. But one look at Roman’s cold, predatory eyes and the tailor swallowed hard, dropping his broom.
“Mr. Vascari,” the old man whispered, recognizing him instantly from the city’s high-society pages. “I... we are closed. We don't open until ten.”
“You know who I am,” Roman said, stepping closer until the counter was the only thing separating them. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. “Then you know why I’m here. My wife, Celeste, spent hours in this shop. What was she having made?”
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The tailor’s hands began to shake as he gripped the edge of the cutting table. “She... she only had her dresses altered, sir. Just as her body changed.”
“Don't lie to me,” Roman snapped, slamming his palm onto the wood. “A pregnant woman doesn't quietly empty a multi-million-dollar holding account just to adjust a hemline. What else did she order here?”
