Chapter 8 - THE GHOST IN THE BOARDROOM
Six months later, the corporate headquarters of DeLuca Enterprises—now rebranded as The Alpha Logistics Group—sat on the top floor of a glass skyscraper in Manhattan. The air inside smelled of expensive mahogany, fresh espresso, and cold, hard corporate reality.
Roman DeLuca sat at the head of a massive conference table built for twenty people. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his hair slightly silvered at the temples, his face leaner and more severe than before. He was no longer a mob boss running a syndicate; he was the primary shareholder of a legitimate multi-billion-dollar supply chain empire.
Across from him sat the independent board of directors, men and women with Ivy League degrees who had no idea about the graves dug in the New Jersey Pine Barrens over the past two decades.
"The transition is ninety-eight percent complete, Mr. DeLuca," the compliance officer announced, sliding a tablet across the glass table.
Roman looked at the numbers. The numbers meant he was safe. The numbers meant his son would never have to look over his shoulder. But the numbers didn't provide a soul.
"Good," Roman said, his voice flat. "Adjourn the meeting."
As the board members filed out, Gabriel remained behind, closing the double doors. He dropped a manila envelope on the table.
"Vanessa’s legal team filed for an appeal in Switzerland," Gabriel said. "She’s trying to claim that the evidence we turned over to the federal authorities was obtained under duress. She wants a plea deal."
Roman didn't even look at the envelope. "Tell the federal prosecutors that if they let her see the light of day before Noah turns eighteen, I will personally fund a private investigation into every senator on the judicial committee. Vanessa stays in a box."
"Understood," Gabriel nodded. He hesitated for a second before pulling a second, smaller item from his pocket. It was a digital memory card. "This came from our courier in Maryland this morning."
Roman’s posture changed instantly. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Gabriel's as he snatched the card. He slotted it into his tablet.
An image filled the screen.
It was Noah. He was seven months old now, sitting on a blanket in the grass near the Chesapeake Bay. He had chubby cheeks, a tuft of thick dark hair, and bright, piercing gray eyes—Roman’s eyes. He was holding a plastic toy boat, laughing at something off-camera. In the corner of the frame, Elena’s hand could be seen, gently stabilizing the boy as he tried to sit up.
Roman’s chest tightened so hard he couldn't breathe. He touched the screen, his thumb tracing the digital outline of his son's face.
"He’s crawling," Roman whispered.
"He started last week," Gabriel said softly. "Our contact says he’s healthy. Dr. Brooks visits the house twice a week. Not for medical reasons anymore, Roman. They’ve been seen dining together at the local pier."
Roman’s grip on the tablet tightened until the screen creaked. The primitive, violent part of him wanted to order a team to Harbor Ridge, to remove Thomas Brooks from the equation permanently. But then he remembered Elena’s words on the porch.
“The King of Westchester has no power in the kingdom of peace.”
If he brought violence back into her world, he would prove her right. He would destroy the only clean thing he had ever created.
"Keep the surveillance passive, Gabriel," Roman said, his voice breaking. "No interference. If a single Marcone loyalist or stray criminal element gets within ten miles of that town... you don't call the police. You handle it. But she must never know we are there."
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"And what about you, Roman?" Gabriel asked. "You're living like a ghost in a tomb."
Roman stood up, looking out at the sprawling New York skyline. "A ghost is exactly what I need to be. Until my son needs a father who can walk in the daylight."
