Chapter 4 - Unearthing the Vault
The ballroom was completely silent once more. The string quartet had long since packed their instruments and fled into the night. Only Roman, Teresa, and I remained under the brilliant, cold glare of the chandeliers.
Roman walked over to his mother, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on her shoulder before turning his dark, piercing eyes back to me.
“You spent three months cleaning my floors, serving my guests, and living in the servants' quarters,” Roman said, his tone a mix of disbelief and profound respect. “Why didn't you come to me directly? Why wait?”
“Because walking into a mafia boss’s office with a stack of old notebooks and demanding justice usually gets you thrown into the Chicago River before you finish your first sentence,” I replied honestly. “I needed proof that wasn't just paper. I needed to see how the inner circle operated, where the current ledgers were stored, and whether you were cut from the same cloth as the men who burned my father alive.”
“And what did you find?” Roman asked, stepping closer until he was standing just a foot away. There was no threat in his posture—only an intense, magnetic curiosity.
“I found a man who runs a multi-billion-dollar empire with ruthless efficiency, but who still stops to listen when the numbers don't add up,” I said without flinching. “I found a man who values truth over convenience, even when that truth destroys an engagement party.”
Roman stared at me for a long, quiet moment, a slow, appreciative smile touching the corners of his mouth. He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against the edge of the torn fabric near my shoulder, hovering inches above the scarred skin without actually touching it. The gesture was surprisingly tender for a man feared across the entire Midwest.
“The vault in my private study contains every financial record dating back twenty-five years,” Roman said softly. “Including the restricted files from the night of the fire. If your father’s notebooks are correct, the evidence isn't just hidden in corporate shell companies—it’s locked behind a digital cipher that only my father’s master key can open.”
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“I know,” I said. “I already copied the master decryption keys from Mrs. Gable’s desk last Tuesday.”
Roman let out a short, genuine laugh—a sound that seemed entirely out of place in the tense atmosphere of the ruined ballroom, yet completely authentic. “Of course you did. You’re an accountant's daughter through and through.”
