Chapter 3 - The Shadow of Callaway TowerBy Monday morning, Callaway Tower was back to its usual frantic rhythm.
Elevators dinged continuously, carrying high-powered attorneys, tech entrepreneurs, and real estate moguls to their morning meetings. In the executive suite on the fifty-fifth floor, Roman Callaway sat behind a massive black glass desk, reviewing quarterly acquisition reports while Marcus stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a leather folder.
“Security footage from Friday night has been scrubbed and archived locally,” Marcus reported. “No one outside our immediate staff knows about the girl or the baby in Unit 914. She stayed in the suite all weekend. I had the private chef send up meals three times a day.”
Roman didn't look up from his tablet. “And the child?”
“Healthy, according to the pediatrician I had come in on Sunday. The mother is recovering, but she’s still malnourished and under a lot of stress.” Marcus paused, shifting his weight. “Boss… what’s the long-term play here? We can’t run a hotel for distressed mothers out of the corporate residential wing indefinitely.”
Roman tapped his tablet screen, locking it. He looked up, his dark eyes fixed on his head of security.
“Who owns the venture capital firm on LaSalle Street—Vance Capital?”
Marcus blinked, thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. “Vance Capital? That’s managed by Arthur Vance’s son. Julian Vance. Mid-thirties, aggressive portfolio manager, heavy backing from old money on the North Shore.”
“Julian Vance,” Roman repeated, leaning back in his leather chair. “Find out everything about him. His debts, his investments, his pending mergers, and his personal life. Especially his upcoming wedding to the daughter of industrialist Harrison Sterling.”
Marcus’s eyebrows rose slowly. A knowing, dangerous grin touched the corner of his mouth. “Ah. So that’s why we’re running background checks on venture capitalists on a Monday morning. The girl in 914?”
“He abandoned her and a newborn child on the streets of Chicago,” Roman said coldly, his voice chillingly flat. “In my city, men who create liabilities tend to settle their accounts.”
“Consider it done, boss,” Marcus said, turning toward the door. “I’ll have a complete dossier on Julian Vance’s desk by noon—or rather, on your desk, detailing how to dismantle his life piece by piece.”
“Not on my desk,” Roman corrected. “On his desk. Let him know someone is auditing his moral balance sheet.”
Three miles away, in the sleek glass-and-steel offices of Vance Capital on LaSalle Street, Julian Vance was having a very good morning.
Seated behind a massive walnut desk overlooking the Chicago River, Julian adjusted the cuffs of his custom Italian shirt and smiled at his senior partner across the room.
“Sterling Industries is locking in the funding package by Friday,” Julian gloated, taking a sip of his espresso. “Once Harrison Sterling signs off on the merger, my position as managing director is guaranteed—and so is my wedding to Chloe next month.”
“Don’t count your chickens before the hatch, Julian,” his partner warned. “Harrison Sterling is notoriously conservative. If he hears even a whisper of scandal—”
“There is no scandal,” Julian laughed dismissively. “The bookstore girl is long gone. I gave her five hundred dollars and told her to disappear. People like that don't fight back; they just sink into the background.”
At that exact moment, the heavy oak double doors of Julian’s private office swung open without a knock.
Julian frowned, sitting up straight. “What the hell? Who let you in here? My secretary is supposed to—!”
He stopped dead.
It wasn't his secretary.
Two massive men in identical black suits walked into the office, moving with the cold, synchronized efficiency of military operators. They didn't say a word. They simply flanked the door, leaving just enough space for a third man to step inside.
Roman Callaway.
Roman wore a bespoke charcoal overcoat, his dark hair immaculate, his face carved from granite. He walked across the expensive Persian rug like he owned the building—which, as Vance Capital’s primary landlord through Callaway Holdings, he technically did.
Julian stood up so fast his leather chair rolled back and slammed into the glass wall behind him.
“Mr… Mr. Callaway?” Julian stammered, color draining instantly from his face. Every businessman in Chicago knew who Roman Callaway was. You didn't cross him, you didn't default on loans he underwrote, and you certainly didn't expect him walking uninvited into your private office on a Monday morning. “I—I wasn't aware you had a meeting with our firm today. My assistant didn't log an appointment—”
Roman stopped three feet from the walnut desk. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't smile. He simply placed a single manila folder down on the polished wood.
“You missed a payment, Julian,” Roman said quietly.
Julian swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly as he rested them on the desk. “A payment? Vance Capital is fully paid up on our lease through next quarter, I assure you—”
“I’m not talking about your office lease,” Roman interrupted. He leaned forward, resting his palms on the edge of the desk, bringing his face inches from Julian’s. The dark intensity in Roman’s eyes made the younger man shrink back. “I’m talking about child support.”
Julian’s breath caught in his throat.
“I… I don't know what you’re talking about,” Julian whispered, panic fluttering behind his eyes.
“Elena Vance,” Roman said, pronouncing every syllable with lethal precision. “Four days old. Born at Mercy General. Currently living in Unit 914 of Callaway Tower, courtesy of my hospitality.”
Julian gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. “She… she went to you? That little—!”
Before Julian could finish the sentence, Roman’s hand shot across the desk, grabbing the lapel of Julian’s expensive Italian suit with terrifying speed, yanking him across the wood until their faces were inches apart.
“Call her a little anything again, and I’ll throw you out of your own twentieth-floor window,” Roman whispered, his voice dangerously low. “You abandoned a newborn child. You thought you could buy her silence with five hundred dollars and walk away to marry your society princess.”
“You can’t prove anything!” Julian choked out, thrashing weakly against Roman’s grip. “She’s a nobody! Harrison Sterling will never—!”
“Harrison Sterling happens to be having lunch with me on Wednesday,” Roman interrupted smoothly. “I’m reviewing his daughter’s prenuptial agreement. Do you know what happens when I drop this folder—containing DNA confirmation, your bank transfer records to the Bridgeport clinic, and witness statements—onto his lunch table?”
Julian’s face turned the color of ash. His career, his wedding, his social standing, his entire carefully constructed future hung by a single, fraying thread.
“Please,” Julian whispered, all the arrogance evaporating from him in an instant. “Please, Mr. Callaway… name your price. How much do you want to keep this quiet?”
Roman slowly released his grip, straightening his cuffs, looking at Julian as if he were stepping in something unpleasant.
“I don't want your money, Julian,” Roman said, turning toward the door. “I want justice. You’re going to establish a million-dollar irrevocable trust for your son by sundown. You’re going to sign full legal acknowledgment of paternity. And you are going to call Elena and apologize—not in person, because if you ever go near her again, my security team will feed you to the rats in the Chicago river.”
May you like
Roman paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.
“You have until five o’clock. Don't test me.”
