Chapter 6 - THE TWISTED ROOTS
"You think you won, Roman?" Julian laughed hysterically, tears streaming down his face. "You think you're the big king? I was never running this show! I was just the middleman!"
"I know," Roman said coldly. "Vanguard wanted my shipping lines."
"No, not Vanguard!" Julian screamed, his voice cracking with terrifying desperation. "Vanguard is just a shell company! Look at who owns the majority shares, Roman! Look at who put the poison in your glass every single night while you slept!"
From the shadows behind the chemical vats, a slow, methodical clapping sound echoed.
Elena turned, her jaw dropping as a woman stepped into the light. She was elegant, dressed in a flawless cream silk suit, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. It was Beatrice Bellandi—Roman and Julian’s mother. The matriarch of the family.
"Mother..." Roman whispered, his gun hand lowering a fraction of an inch, the first sign of genuine shock he had shown tonight.
"Oh, Roman," Beatrice sighed, looking at him with a mixture of pity and cold disappointment. "You were always too sentimental. Your father was the same way. You thought this empire was about loyalty and honor. It's about survival. It's about evolution."
Elena stepped back, her mind racing. The mother. She had access to the house every day. She was the one who personally oversaw Roman’s dietary restrictions when he first got sick.
"Why?" Roman’s voice was dangerously quiet.
"Because you were going to go legitimate," Beatrice said, her voice turning sharp as a razor. "You wanted to clean up the Bellandi name. You wanted to move our assets into legal real estate, technology, philanthropy. Do you know how much money we would lose? The illegal drug market through the Great Lakes makes billions. Julian understood that. He was willing to keep the family in the dark where we belong."
She looked at Julian. "Give me the vial, Julian. Let's finish this."
Julian turned to hand her the crimson vial, a look of pathetic relief on his face. "See, Roman? Mother knows best—"
BANG.
A single shot rang out. But it didn't come from Roman’s gun.
Beatrice had pulled a small, silver derringer from her sleeve and shot Julian directly through the forehead. Julian’s eyes went wide with shock. The crimson vial slipped from his lifeless fingers, crashing into the concrete floor below, shattering into a million harmless pieces. It wasn't a toxin at all—just colored water. A prop for a final trap.
Julian fell backward, crashing over the railing into the chemical vat below.
Elena screamed, covering her mouth.
Beatrice turned the small gun toward Roman, a chilling, emotionless smile on her face. "Julian was weak anyway. He would have cracked under police interrogation. Now, Roman... you will die tonight in a tragic shootout with your traitorous brother. And I will inherit everything as the grieving mother."
She pulled the trigger.
But nothing happened. A hollow click echoed through the room.
Beatrice frowned, pulling the trigger again. Click.
"Looking for this?" Elena asked, holding up a small, intricate metal spring and two tiny firing pins in her palm.
While Beatrice had been monologuing, Elena had noticed the spare derringer parts on the laboratory assembly table next to her—the facility manufactured custom, untraceable weaponry for high-profile clients. When Beatrice had stepped out of the shadows, Elena had quietly used her knowledge of delicate botanical tweezers to swipe the firing pins from the open assembly tray that matched the model Beatrice loved to carry.
Beatrice stared at Elena in absolute horror.
Roman didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his face a mask of absolute, unyielding stone. He didn't shoot his mother. Instead, he grabbed her wrists, snapping heavy steel handcuffs around them—the very same cuffs Julian had used on Elena.
"You spent six months trying to put me in a grave, Mother," Roman whispered in her ear. "Now, you're going to spend the rest of your life in a concrete cell beneath it."
EPILOGUE: THE GARDEN AND THE GHOSTTwo weeks later.
The rain in Queens was soft, a gentle summer drizzle that made the green herbs in the window boxes of the tiny apothecary smell sweet and alive.
Elena Vale stood behind her counter, carefully grinding lavender and chamomile into a fine powder. The bell above the shop door chimed softly.
She didn't look up. "We're closed for the evening."
"Even for an unscheduled appointment?" a deep, familiar voice asked.
Elena looked up and smiled. Roman Bellandi stood in the doorway. He looked entirely healthy now, his skin full of life, his posture commanding and powerful. He wore a simple black coat, no weapons visible, no guards at his heels.
"You're looking better, Mr. Bellandi," Elena said, setting down her pestle.
"I am," Roman said, walking over to the counter. He laid a small, beautifully bound leather book on the wooden surface. "I found this in the Vanguard archives. It's a 16th-century manuscript on rare Eastern botany. I figured it was a better payment than a gold ring."
Elena opened the book, her eyes lighting up at the intricate illustrations of rare plants. "It’s beautiful. Thank you."
"The city is quiet now," Roman said, leaning against the counter, his dark eyes fixed on her face. "My mother is taken care of. The traitors are gone. But my house feels very empty."
Elena arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk touching her lips. "Are you asking me to be your personal doctor, Roman?"
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"I'm asking you to keep me alive," Roman said softly, reaching out and gently touching the edge of her dark braid. "Because a king is nothing without the woman who knows exactly how to handle his poison."
Elena looked at the book, then into the eyes of Chicago's most feared man, and for the first time, she didn't see death at all. She saw a brand new beginning.
