Chapter 3 - The Accountant’s LedgerI walked out of the library without saying another word.
My hand didn't shake as I reached into my coat and pulled out my encrypted burner phone. I dialed a ten-digit number from memory. It connected on the second ring.
“Boss?” Vincent’s heavy voice rumbled through the speaker. Vincent had been with me since the docks in Brooklyn, a man whose loyalty could not be bought with gold or threatened with steel.
“Where is Marcus?” I asked. His name tasted like ash in my mouth.
“He’s at the midtown office wrapping up the quarterly tax filings for the shipping subsidiary,” Vincent replied, sensing the shift in my tone immediately. “Shall I have him brought in?”
“Don't touch him yet,” I said, my gaze fixed on the mahogany double doors of my study. “Lock down the building. No one leaves. No calls go out. And Vincent?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Bring me the ledger files from the floor safe in his office. All of them. Especially the ones marked for overseas routing.”
“Consider it done, Dominic. Twenty minutes.”
I hung up and turned around. Grace was standing in the doorway of the library, the three girls clustered quietly behind her skirt. She wasn't cowering. Even in a mansion owned by a man who ruled half the waterfront syndicates in the tri-state area, Grace stood her ground like a soldier protecting her platoon.
“Mr. Romano,” she said, her voice steady. “What are you going to do?”
“That is none of your concern, Miss Bennett,” I replied coldly, reverting instantly to the armor I had worn for two decades.
“Is it?” she challenged, stepping forward. “Those little girls haven't spoken a word in over a year because they watched you bring their mother’s killer into this house every single week. They thought you were working with him. They thought you didn't care.”
The words struck me like a physical blow. I looked down at Olivia. Her dark eyes—Isabelle’s eyes—were staring up at me with a mixture of fear and lingering hope.
I knelt down, ignoring the expensive wool of my trousers against the dusty hardwood floor. I didn't touch her—I knew better than to force physical contact after so long.
“Olivia,” I said, my voice cracking slightly despite my best efforts. “Did you think Daddy knew?”
Olivia didn't answer immediately. She looked at Grace, then back at me. Slowly, she shook her head.
“Good,” I whispered, standing back up. I looked at Grace. “Take them to the panic room in the basement. Lock the iron door. Don't open it for anyone—not even me—unless I give you the private passphrase we used when Isabelle was alive.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly, processing the tactical reality of my command. “What passphrase?”
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“‘The garden gate is rusted,’” I said.
She nodded once, her expression hardening with fierce determination. “Go. We’ll be safe.”
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