Chapter 4 - The Tailor’s Ledger
The tailor recoiled, his chest heaving behind his worn tape measure. He glanced nervously toward the back curtain of the shop before sliding a heavy leather ledger out from beneath a pile of scrap silk.
“She didn't order dresses, Mr. Vascari,” the old man said, his voice trembling. “Not at the end. About three months ago, she stopped bringing in maternity wear.”
Roman leaned over the counter, his eyes narrowing. “Go on.”
“She brought in men’s garments,” the tailor confessed, flipping open the ledger to a marked page. “Tailored suits. High-end, executive-grade fabric. But they weren't your size. She gave me precise measurements for a man about five-ten, athletic build, narrow waist. She paid entirely in cash. Crisp hundred-dollar bills, fresh from a downtown bank.”
Roman stared down at the ledger. The measurements didn't belong to him. They belonged to someone else entirely—a ghost walking through his life while he was busy playing the king of Chicago.
“Did she say who the suits were for?” Roman demanded, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own lapel.
“No,” the tailor whispered. “She only said that when the time came, the man wearing them would finally look your empire in the eye.”
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Before Roman could demand a name, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text message from an unknown number containing a single photograph taken from across the street.
The photo showed a sleek black town car parked outside a private obstetrics clinic downtown, and stepping out of the passenger side was a man carrying a baby bag—a man wearing an impeccably tailored suit that matched the exact dimensions in the tailor’s ledger.
