Chapter 1 - The Ghost in the Penthouse"No," Roman said, his voice dropping an octave as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling glass of his study, watching the cold Chicago rain streak down the skyline. "Do not touch her accounts, Marco. Do not track her phone records."
Marco stepped back, his face a mask of professional confusion. "Boss, she’s gone. If she’s plotting something—or if someone from the North Side syndicate got to her—you need to know."
"She’s not with the North Side," Roman muttered, running a hand over his jaw. "And she’s not plotting against me. She’s just... gone."
"With your child."
"I am well aware of what she is carrying, Marco." Roman turned, his eyes flashing with a cold, dangerous glint that usually made grown men sweat. "Find out everything she did in the three months before she left. Every transaction, every phone call she didn't answer, every person she spoke to. But you do not approach her. If you scare her, I will bury you under Lake Michigan."
Marco nodded tightly and vanished from the room.
Left alone, Roman felt a hollow ache settle deep in his chest—a sensation entirely foreign to a man who had built an empire on blood, fear, and absolute control. He walked slowly down the long corridor toward their private wing, his footsteps echoing in the empty, oversized penthouse.
He pushed open the door to the nursery.
It was a room he had rarely entered. He had paid for the best designers, approved the exorbitant budgets, and let Celeste handle the rest. The walls were painted a soft, soothing cream. A white crib stood against the far wall, flanked by a plush rocking chair and shelves lined with hand-selected baby books.
Roman stepped inside, the faint scent of lavender and baby powder wrapping around him.
He walked over to the closet, his hand resting on the brass handle. He didn't know why he opened it. Maybe he expected to find a forgotten box of maternity clothes, or a receipt that would give him a clue to where she had fled.
Instead, he found a hidden compartment in the floorboards beneath the shoe rack, the wood slightly displaced as if it had been hurriedly pushed back into place.
Roman dropped to one knee. His powerful fingers pried the loose panel up.
Inside sat a heavy, fireproof lockbox and a thick stack of manila folders, labeled in Celeste’s neat, elegant handwriting. He opened the top folder, flipped it open, and the air froze in his lungs.
Documents. Photographs. Bank statements.
And a financial ledger that detailed every single illegal transaction, bribe, and offshore account Roman had spent the last decade carefully hiding from federal investigators, rival syndicates, and his own capos.
Worse still, tucked right beneath the ledger was a handwritten note addressed to him, dated three days before she walked out.
“Roman,” it read. “You thought you were the only one playing chess. You forgot who taught you how to move the pieces.”
May you like
Roman stared at the paper, the room spinning around him. The woman he thought he had completely subdued, the gentle wife he had taken for granted, wasn't running away from his betrayal.
She was launching a total war.
