Chapter 6 - Whispers in the Boardroom
Three weeks later, the glass-and-steel skyscraper housing D’Angelo Holdings—formerly the primary front for the syndicate's laundering operations—buzzed with a completely different kind of energy.
Gone were the armed enforcers standing by the elevators. Gone were the whispered threats in the corridors. In their place were real estate brokers, financial compliance officers, and architects reviewing blueprints for community centers and urban renewal projects.
Roman sat at the head of the massive mahogany conference table on the forty-fifth floor. Across from him sat his remaining senior captains—men who had bled for him in back alleys, now wearing three-piece suits and holding tablets instead of submachine guns.
"The transition of the shipping docks is complete," Dante reported, sliding a final dossier across the table. "Customs and Border Protection has taken over primary oversight. Our logistics division is officially 100% legitimate shipping and freight."
"And the old guard?" Roman asked, not looking up from a property blueprint.
"A few of the old captains weren't happy about giving up the protection rackets," Dante said quietly. "They tried to reach out to Helena."
Roman’s pen stopped moving across the paper. "My mother?"
"She’s living in a private estate in upstate New York," Dante said. "Maintained by our accounts, but cut off from all syndicate communication. She told them no. Word is, her time in exile changed her perspective."
Roman nodded slowly, a faint, complicated ache settling in his chest. He hadn't spoken to his mother since the night of the gala, but he knew she was safe, and for now, that was enough.
"Good," Roman said. "Anyone else?"
"Vance is scheduled for extradition to a federal holding facility in South America by midnight," Dante added with a slight smirk. "He'll spend the rest of his days trying to audit prison guards."
"Let's get back to work," Roman said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "The city council meeting on the downtown youth center is in twenty minutes. I don't want to be late."
As the captains filed out of the room, Roman walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the sprawling expanse of the city below. The skyline looked different today—brighter, cleaner, less defined by fear.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out and saw a photo message from Nora.
It was a picture of Sophie sitting at a small wooden easel in their new suburban home, her paintbrush dripping with bright yellow paint, smiling up at the camera with paint smeared across her nose.
May you like
Beneath the photo, Nora had typed a single sentence: Dinner is at six. Don't be late.
Roman smiled, slipping the phone back into his pocket, and walked out of the boardroom to start his new life.
