Chapter 7 - The Ledger of the Estate
By 4:00 a.m., the storm had passed, leaving the Chicago sky washed in a pale, bruised violet as dawn began to break over the lake.
The North Tower’s second-floor office was warm, lit by the amber glow of the desk lamps and the crackling fire in the hearth.
Paige sat at the mahogany desk, wearing a dry oversized sweater that belonged to Roman, holding a steaming mug of hot tea between her palms. Her right wrist was stiff and sore from the adrenaline crash, but the electric burn in her lower back had finally faded.
The door opened, and Roman walked in.
He had changed into fresh clothes—a clean white shirt and dark trousers. His dark hair was slightly damp, and his face was carved from the exhaustion of a man who had just closed the final chapter of a family betrayal.
He walked over to the desk, placed a thick manila envelope down on the wood, and pulled up his chair.
“Marcus confessed to the rest of the shell companies,” Roman said quietly, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Vane Holdings account is frozen. The state’s attorney is currently drafting the asset seizure warrants.”
“And the shipping routes?” Paige asked, taking a sip of her tea.
“Under new management,” Roman replied, a faint, rare smile touching his mouth. “Effective today, the Gallow syndicate is officially out of the contraband business. We’re liquidating the secondary ports and focusing entirely on municipal logistics and real estate development.”
Paige stared at him, her eyes widening slightly. “You’re legitimizing the entire family portfolio?”
“I’m balancing the books, Paige,” Roman corrected gently. “My father and brothers died protecting a lifestyle that was already rotting from the inside. I spent five years trying to manage the rot. You’re the one who finally showed me how to cut it out.”
He reached out, tapping the manila envelope on the desk.
“What’s this?” Paige asked, her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against her ribs.
“Open it.”
Paige reached over, slid the flap open, and pulled out a certified cashier’s check made out to her name.
The amount: $50,000.
Below it was a formal employment contract for the position of Chief Financial Officer of Gallow Logistics & Holdings, with an annual salary that made her previous $14-an-hour wage at the Onyx Room look like pocket change.
“I can’t accept this,” Paige whispered, sliding the papers back toward him. “I’m a waitress. I audit spreadsheets for fun, but I don't have a corporate finance degree—I dropped out of college when my mother got sick.”
“You found a five-year systemic embezzlement scheme buried inside dead men’s corporate identities using a laptop and three old ledgers,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that low, unyielding register that brooked zero argument. “You are the best forensic auditor in this city, Paige. You just didn't have anyone willing to pay you what you were actually worth.”
Paige looked down at the contract.
For seven years, she had felt like a ghost—invisible, replaceable, treading water in a city that ate people like her for breakfast. She had believed her life was defined by a six-thousand-dollar mistake and a string of bad luck.
Now, sitting in the heart of a mafia empire she had just helped save, she realized the truth.
She wasn't a victim of the ledger.
She was the one holding the pen.
“Does this mean I still have to bring you coffee on Tuesdays?” she asked, a mischievous spark lighting up her hazel eyes.
May you like
Roman let out a low, rich chuckle—a sound that finally banished every shadow from the room.
“Only if I bring yours to bed first,” he said.
