Chapter 2 - The Ledgers of the Forgotten
The penthouse of the Palazzo Romano was a fortress of soundproof glass, brushed steel, and black velvet. It occupied the entire forty-second floor, a sanctuary so high above the city that the sirens below sounded like distant insects.
Within seven minutes of Alessandro’s command, the living room had been converted into a high-end triage facility. Dr. Vance, a man whose medical brilliance was matched only by his absolute terror of Alessandro Romano, knelt over Sofia Rossi with a portable ultrasound monitor while two private nurses hung bags of saline, intravenous antibiotics, and blood-clotting agents from an improvised brass stand.
"Severe bronchial hemorrhage secondary to advanced, untreated bacterial pneumonia," Dr. Vance said, stripping his latex gloves with a snap that sounded like a gunshot in the silent room. He didn't dare wipe the sweat from his own forehead. "Her lungs are full of fluid, Mr. Romano. If she had stayed on that floor another two hours, she would have drowned in her own blood."
Alessandro stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, a tumbler of neat bourbon in his hand. He hadn't touched it. The amber liquid remained motionless.
"Will she live?"
"She will," Vance said, exhaling a breath he seemed to have held since the elevator ride up. "We’ve stabilized the bleeding. The fever will peak by dawn. But she is malnourished, exhausted to the cellular level. She hasn't eaten a full meal in weeks."
In the corner of the room, seated upon a massive velvet sofa that swallowed her tiny frame, Emma was wrapped in an oversized cashmere throw. In front of her sat a silver platter bearing roasted chicken, steaming buttered potatoes, and a glass of warm milk. She had not touched the chicken. She had only drank half the milk, her wide, observant hazel eyes darting continuously between her mother’s pale face on the medical cot and the tall man standing by the window.
Alessandro set his glass down on the console table and walked over to the couch. He did not tower over her; he sat on the low mahogany coffee table across from her, his long legs folded, bringing his gaze level with hers once again.
"She’s sleeping, Emma," Alessandro said, his tone devoid of the chilling edge he used with grown men. "The doctors gave her something to take the pain away."
"Is she going to jail?" Emma asked. Her voice was remarkably steady for a seven-year-old, but the small fingers clutching the edge of the blanket betrayed the tremor running through her.
Alessandro’s brow furrowed. "Why would she go to jail?"
"Mr. Victor told her that if she didn't finish the fourteenth floor, he would tell the police she stole the silver spoons from the banquet room," Emma said, reciting the accusation with the precise, mechanical recall of an innocent child who had spent days turning the terrifying words over in her mind. "He said nobody believes a cleaning lady over a director."
Alessandro took a slow, deep breath through his nose. Those who knew him on the streets of Chicago knew that when Alessandro Romano grew completely still, blood was about to be spilled.
"Do you know where Mr. Victor keeps his papers, Emma?"
Emma nodded once. "In the basement. Behind the laundry machines. There’s an iron door with a red light. Mom had to go there every Friday to sign the yellow book, but he never let her take the yellow book out of the room."
"The yellow book," Alessandro repeated softly.
"He made her sign her name four times," Emma continued, her eyes dropping to her knees. "Every time she asked for the cash envelope, he said the hotel took it for her rent because we live in the staff basement. But our room has no windows, Mr. Alessandro. The water on the floor smells like old pennies."
A quiet knock sounded at the double doors of the penthouse. Marco stepped inside, holding a thick, leather-bound folder under his arm. His face was grim.
"He’s downstairs, Boss. He was at a high-stakes poker club in the West Loop when we pulled him out. He thought it was a joke until we threw him into the trunk of the Maybach."
Alessandro stood up smoothly. He looked down at Emma, reaching out a hand to lightly brush a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead.
"Eat the chicken, little bird," Alessandro told her, his voice softer than silk. "When you wake up tomorrow, your mother will be breathing clean air. And Mr. Victor will never yell at her again."
Emma looked up at him, her eyes searching his face with an intelligence far beyond her years. "Are you a king?"
Alessandro offered a ghost of a smile—cold, sharp, and ancient. "Something like that. Sleep now."
He turned on his heel, his overcoat sweeping behind him as he exited the penthouse. Marco fell into step beside him as they entered the private service elevator, the digital display ticking downward from 42 to the sub-basement levels.
"What did the preliminary search find?" Alessandro asked, staring at the polished brass indicator.
"It’s bad, Boss," Marco replied, handing over the folder. "Victor Vance—no relation to the doctor, thank God—has been running a shadow payroll for eighteen months. He targets single mothers, undocumented immigrants, and women running from abusive situations. He withholds their passports or IDs under the guise of 'work authorization filing.' Then he pays them twenty percent of their wages in cash, docks them for imaginary uniform fees, and pockets the eighty percent payroll draw from corporate."
The elevator chimed, passing the lobby.
"How much has he pocketed?"
"Over three million across your four downtown properties in the last two fiscal years," Marco said. "He was preparing to buy a villa in Costa Rica next month."
The elevator stopped at Sub-Level 3: The industrial laundry and boiler room. The air here was hot, thick with the scent of bleach, steam, and damp concrete.
May you like
"Costa Rica is very far," Alessandro murmured, his leather gloves tightening with a dull creak over his knuckles. "He should have stayed in the hotel."
***
