Chapter 12 - Echoes in the Timber YardThe local lumber yard was bustling with activity as winter approached, stacking cords of seasoned maple and oak to prepare the town for the freezing months ahead.
Roman was lifting a heavy beam onto a flatbed truck when a sleek, black European sedan turned off the gravel highway and parked near the office. It looked entirely out of place among the rusted pickup trucks and mud-splattered tractors of coastal Maine.
The rear door opened, and a man stepped out wearing an expensive tailored overcoat that screamed high-stakes finance and low-morality politics.
It was Marco Bellini.
Roman stopped moving, lowering the beam slowly onto the truck bed. He wiped his hands on a rag and walked over, his expression hardening.
"Marco," Roman said, keeping his voice low as his former head of security approached. "You took a wrong turn. New York is a few hundred miles south."
Marco looked around the dusty, sawdust-filled yard, shaking his head with a faint, incredulous grin. "You’ve really gone native, Boss. I had to bribe a local bait-shop owner just to find out where you were hiding."
"I'm not hiding. I'm living," Roman corrected sharply. "What do you want, Marco? If you're here to offer me a slice of whatever syndicate pie is left in Chicago, save your breath."
"It's not Chicago," Marco sighed, pulling a folded digital tablet from his coat pocket. "It's Washington. And it's not the Outfit. It's the Department of Justice."
Roman’s eyes narrowed. "Speak."
"They're cleaning house on the federal indictments we ducked three years ago," Marco explained quietly. "They found a leak in the federal prosecutor's office. Someone is trying to dig up the old Vanguard Legal files to pin everything on Celeste, claiming she was the mastermind behind the entire multi-million-dollar money laundering scheme."
The air around Roman suddenly grew ice-cold. The lumber yard noises seemed to fade away into a distant hum.
"They're going after my wife," Roman said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that made Marco instinctively take a step back.
"They don't know where she is yet," Marco said quickly. "But federal investigators are tracking the corporate shell accounts that were supposedly closed. They’re getting close, Roman. If they trace those accounts back to this address, Celeste goes away for twenty years."
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Roman stared at the black sedan, feeling the old, dark instincts rise from the depths where he had buried them. But this time, there was no rage—only cold, calculated precision.
"Get in the truck, Marco," Roman said, tossing his work gloves onto the passenger seat. "We're going for a ride."
