Chapter 9 - THE RED LEDGERThe enforcers didn't hesitate. Both men raised their carbines toward the top of the stairs, aiming straight at the small figure standing in the shadow of the chandelier.
They never pulled the trigger.
Before their fingers could tighten on the grips, two synchronized cracks echoed through the foyer like thunderclaps inside a tomb.
Roman Cross hadn't aimed for their chests. Two precise, lightning-fast rounds shattered both men's shooting wrists, sending their weapons clattering down the marble steps in a clatter of steel and blood.
"You touch my son," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and empty it sounded like it came from the bottom of Lake Michigan, "and I won't just level your warehouses, Victor. I’ll feed you to the dogs on the docks."
Slade lunged for his coat pocket, his hand closing around the grip of a hidden snub-nosed revolver, but before he could clear the leather, a heavy metallic click echoed right beside his ear.
Marcus stood directly behind Slade, the muzzle of his Remington pressed firmly against the base of the syndicate boss's skull.
"Don't even twitch, Victor," Marcus muttered, his finger resting lightly on the double triggers. "The boss is feeling generous tonight, but I’ve got a terrible trigger finger."
Slade froze, his hand slowly withdrawing from his coat, empty and trembling. He looked up at Roman, who was walking slowly down the stairs toward him, his face carved from sheer, unadulterated vengeance.
"Where is it, Victor?" Roman asked softly, stopping two feet away from the older man.
"Where is what?" Slade spat, blood trickling from a split lip where the pressure of the moment had caught him.
"The red ledger," Roman said. "Claire’s audit. You didn't come here tonight for fifty grand. You came because my wife’s records were missing from her office safe the morning she died, and your second-in-command was seen leaving the hospital parking lot at 3:00 AM."
Slade laughed, a wet, rattling sound. "You think I killed her? She had a congenital defect, Roman! The coroner signed off on it! Even your four million dollars couldn't buy a different autopsy!"
"The coroner was on your payroll," Roman said, raising the Sig Sauer and pressing the cold steel barrel directly between Slade’s eyes. "Now. Where is the book?"
From the top of the landing, a soft shuffle of footsteps approached.
Ivy walked down the stairs, her bare feet silent on the marble. In her hands, she wasn't carrying Grace’s photograph anymore. She was holding a thick, leather-bound ledger with a faded red cover, its pages swollen with newspaper clippings, bank routing numbers, and handwritten notes in Claire Cross’s neat, hurried cursive.
"You don't need to ask him, Roman," Ivy said, her voice steady and clear as she stepped onto the main floor. "I found it in the bottom of Max’s toy chest three days ago, wrapped in the blanket Claire used on her last shift."
Roman stared at the red book in her hands. His throat worked as if he were trying to swallow glass.
"She didn't hide it from you because she was scared of your business," Ivy continued, her dark eyes locking onto Roman’s haunted gaze. "She hid it because she knew they were trying to frame you. She was building a case to clear your name so you could legally walk away from the syndicate before Max was old enough to ask what his father did for a living."
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Slade let out a low, ragged curse, realizing the game was entirely over.
"Take him to the basement," Roman said without looking at Slade, his eyes never leaving Ivy's face. "And don't let him see the light of day until he’s signed every confession the federal prosecutor needs."
