Chapter 2 - The Wolf at the Table
At 8:00 a.m. the following morning, the morning light flooded the dining room through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking Lake Shore Drive.
Camille sat at the head of the marble table in a crisp ivory dress, sipping black coffee while pouring fresh orange juice for Jack and Rosie. To any outside observer, it was the picture of an affluent, happy family preparing for the day.
I entered the dining room wearing a tailored charcoal suit, my hair combed back, my expression perfectly neutral.
Rosie flinched slightly when she heard my footsteps, her eyes instinctively darting to Camille before she looked down at her plate. Jack sat rigid, his hands under the table, refusing to make eye contact with me. My heart broke into a thousand pieces seeing my son so terrified of his own father, but I forced my facial muscles to remain completely placid.
"Good morning, darling," Camille said, rising from her chair to give me a soft kiss on the cheek. Her skin felt like ice against mine. "You came in so late last night. I was worried."
"Logistics trouble at Port 4," I said smoothly, pulling out my chair and sitting down. "Nothing that couldn't be handled."
Naomi stepped into the room carrying a silver tray with my morning espresso. Her posture was stiff and submissive—the perfect actor playing the obedient housekeeper. She set the cup beside my plate without raising her eyes.
"Thank you, Naomi," I said casually.
"Is everything ready for the guardianship filing this afternoon, Roman?" Camille asked, taking a delicate bite of toast. "Arthur mentioned he was coming by at two o'clock with the revised paperwork."
I took a sip of espresso, keeping my voice utterly calm. "Yes. Arthur said it’s just a formality to ensure the children are fully covered under our combined estate policies prior to the wedding."
"It really is for the best," Camille murmured, looking at Rosie with a sweet, patronizing smile. "With your busy schedule, the children need a dedicated motherly figure who can handle their schooling, medical decisions, and personal care."
Rosie swallowed hard, her small fork clinking against her plate. She looked up at me with eyes full of desperate, silent pleading. Dad, please don't.
I reached across the table and placed my large hand over Rosie’s tiny, cold fingers. I gave her a firm, gentle squeeze—a secret signal her mother and I used to give her when she was scared.
Rosie’s breath caught in her throat. She looked into my eyes and saw something she hadn't seen in months: the sharp, protective fire of her father, fully awake and watching over her.
"We'll see what Arthur has prepared," I said smoothly, releasing her hand.
At 1:45 p.m., Arthur Velez arrived.
He wore a bespoke navy suit, carried a leather briefcase, and possessed the polished, trustworthy smile that had fooled me for a decade. He walked into my private office, where I sat behind my massive glass desk.
"Roman, my boy," Arthur said warmly, setting his briefcase down and pulling out a thick sheaf of legal documents. "I have everything finalized. Once you sign these guardianship transfer riders, Camille will have co-jurisdiction over the children’s trust funds and personal care. It will streamline the international school applications for next fall."
I leaned back in my leather chair, twirling a heavy silver pen between my fingers. "And what about the clause regarding sole custody in the event of my unexpected legal distress or death?"
Arthur’s smile didn't waver, though his eyes twitched slightly. "Standard boilerplate protection, Roman. Given the high-risk nature of your business enterprise, the courts require a designated guardian to prevent the state from stepping in should... unpleasant circumstances arise."
"Unpleasant circumstances," I repeated thoughtfully. "Like being arrested for a crime I didn't commit? Or dying in a tragic accident on the docks?"
Arthur chuckled nervously. "You're always so cynical, Roman. We're securing your family's future."
I set the pen down on the desk with a sharp, heavy click.
"Call Camille in here," I said quietly.
Arthur frowned. "She's waiting in the lounge with the children—"
"Call her, Arthur."
Two minutes later, Camille stepped into the office, holding a file of her own. She smiled brilliantly, stepping beside Arthur's chair.
"Is everything ready to sign?" she asked sweetly.
I didn't answer. Instead, I leaned forward, opened my desk drawer, and pulled out a small black tablet. I pushed it across the glass desk until it stopped directly in front of them.
"Press play, Arthur," I ordered softly.
Arthur hesitated, looking at Camille before reaching out with a trembling hand to tap the screen.
The video recorded by Naomi eleven hours earlier began to play in crystal-clear high definition.
The room echoed with Camille's cruel, mocking voice: "Tell me the sentence... If Dad sees weakness, he sends it away..."
Then came the audio recording of Camille's private phone call with her father, Patrick Sloane: "Once Moretti signs the guardianship papers, we can file the emergency custody petition. He won't be able to touch the trust funds without my approval..."
Camille’s face drained of every drop of color. Her brilliant smile disintegrated into a mask of pure horror.
Arthur fell back against his chair, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Roman... wait... this... this is a misunderstanding—"
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"You made two mistakes, Arthur," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the glass windows hum. "First, you mistook my grief over Isabella for weakness. Second... you forgot who built this city's underworld."
I stood up slowly, towering over them like a judgment from hell itself.
