Chapter 8
A soft knock at the heavy double doors broke the intimate moment. Roman pulled back slightly, his expression instantly shifting back into the cold, authoritative Mafia Boss.
"Enter," Roman commanded.
Two men in dark suits wheeled a silver cart into the room, loaded with steaming plates of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables, and warm bread. They quickly and silently arranged the food on the dining table near the windows, bowed respectfully, and exited the penthouse without uttering a single word.
"Come eat, Sophie," Nora called softly, wiping her eyes.
Sophie scrambled off the couch and ran to the table. Roman pulled a chair out for her, lifting her gently into the seat. He watched with a heavy, aching heart as his daughter ate with a ravenous speed that spoke volumes about the poverty she had endured.
"Slowly, little bird," Roman murmured, placing a linen napkin on her lap. "There is more if you want it."
Nora sat beside her, picking at her own food, her eyes constantly darting to the locked doors. "What happens now, Roman? Your mother is locked in the basement. Won't her loyalists in the family try to retaliate?"
Roman walked over to a crystal decanter on a side table and poured himself two fingers of dark amber bourbon.
"My mother has no loyalists," Roman said slowly, swirling the liquid in the glass. "They were loyal to the money she controlled. And the money she controlled came from my enterprises. When they see she is powerless, they will fall in line."
"But she mentioned the offshore holding accounts," Nora pointed out, her sharp mind working despite her exhaustion. "She said she put the fifty thousand a month in there to keep it safe. Is that true?"
Roman paused, the crystal glass halfway to his lips. His thick, slightly wavy hair caught the dim light as he looked out the window. His cold, intimidating eyes narrowed.
"Helena does not do anything simply to keep it safe," Roman stated, his voice dropping into a deadly, measured cadence. "She hoards power. If she was siphoning fifty thousand dollars a month for three years, she wasn't just hiding it. She was funding something."
"Funding what?" Nora asked, a chill running down her spine.
Before Roman could answer, the secure, encrypted phone in his inner suit pocket vibrated heavily. He pulled it out, looking at the glowing screen. The caller ID showed it was Rafe, his head of intelligence.
"Speak," Roman answered, his voice low and dangerous.
"Boss," Rafe’s deep American accent cracked over the speaker. "I just tossed Helena’s private office in the east wing like you asked. We found the physical ledgers hidden in a floor safe."
"And the money?" Roman asked, his jaw clenching.
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"It didn't go to an offshore trust," Rafe revealed, his voice tight with urgency. "She’s been routing the cash through dummy corporations right back into the city. Roman... she’s been secretly funding the Petrov syndicate."
Roman went completely still. The silence in the room became terrifying. The Petrovs were their deadliest, most brutal rivals in the city—the very syndicate that had ambushed Roman three years ago, putting him in a coma.
