Chapter 13 - The Rules of Engagement
The adrenaline did not fade until they were three miles south, parked in an industrial access lane near the Chicago River, engine idling while the rain drummed against the sunroof.
Evelyn was trembling.
It was not fear; it was the biological reaction to violence, the flood of chemical survival instincts that four years of marriage to a mafia boss had branded into her nervous system. She looked down at her right hand. A small sliver of glass from the shattered carafe had nicked her palm, a thin bead of crimson welling against the pale skin.
Roman noticed.
Without a word, he turned on the interior reading light, pulled a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, and gently took her hand in his. His touch was reverent, almost desperately tender. He carefully extracted the glass fragment, folded the linen over the cut, and pressed down to staunch the bleeding.
"You took the carafe," he whispered, his eyes fixed on her hand.
"He threatened Maya," she said, her voice shaking slightly before she steadied it. "He sat in a public hotel and threatened an eighteen-year-old child whose only crime was getting into college."
Roman closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against their joined hands. "I lost control. I had him by the throat in the Peninsula lounge. There were fifty witnesses. There are cameras."
"He didn't have you by the throat, Roman. You had him. And more importantly, he knows we aren't afraid."
"Evelyn," Roman said, looking up at her, his eyes tormented. "I swore I wouldn't drag that filth back to you. When I choked him, I felt it. The old hunger. The Castellano instinct to tear a man’s throat out just to prove who owns the room. I felt like the monster who locked you in Lake Forest."
Evelyn reached up with her free hand and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her. "Listen to me. When you locked me in Lake Forest, you did it to possess me. You did it to control my world so you wouldn't feel vulnerable. Tonight, you moved because an innocent girl was targeted by an extortionist. If you can't see the difference between cruelty and protection, you need to fire your therapist."
Roman stared at her, stunned into silence. Then, a ragged, breathy laugh escaped him. "You really are Thomas Moretti’s daughter."
"I am nobody's daughter anymore, Roman. I am myself. And you are not Salvatore." She pulled her hand gently from the handkerchief. The cut was minor. "Now tell me the truth about the two hundred million. Does Matteo have a legitimate legal instrument?"
Roman shifted into drive, pulling the car back out onto the wet asphalt. His expression hardened into executive focus. "When my father was dying, he moved enormous sums through shell entities to hide the organization's hemorrhaging debts. I knew about the Sicilian rail bond. I thought the debt was extinguished when I signed over the Mediterranean port rights. But Matteo isn't stupid. He likely inserted a clause requiring cash settlement if the port revenues failed to hit a specific threshold within five years."
"A balloon covenant," Evelyn deduced instantly. "He waited until the five-year maturity window hit. Which is this month."
"Exactly. If the contract was signed under maritime law in Genoa, it’s enforceable in international civil arbitration. He doesn't have to shoot us to destroy us, Evelyn. If he files an asset freeze against my legitimate companies, the Foundation's endowment goes down with it. Maya’s scholarship, the legal clinic, the Pilsen youth center—everything freezes."
"Then we don't fight him in a warehouse," Evelyn said coldly. "We fight him in the ledger."
By 8:00 p.m., the dining room table at their Lincoln Park home had been transformed into an operations center. Gabriel had arrived with three boxes of archival records from Thomas Moretti’s private safe. Vanessa sat cross-legged on the rug with two laptops, running asset tracing algorithms through public maritime registries in Italy and Panama.
The house smelled of brewed coffee and old paper.
"Here," Vanessa called out, tapping her screen. "Look at the port of Gioia Tauro. In 2019, right after Roman signed the transfer of ownership to Matteo Rossi, the operating company didn't lose money due to 'environmental regulations.' That was a fabrication."
Evelyn leaned over Vanessa's shoulder. "What happened to the revenue?"
"It was diverted," Vanessa explained, rotating the screen. "Matteo set up a secondary holding corporation registered in Cyprus called Nereid Maritime. He funneled ninety-four percent of the port’s freight fees into Cyprus, deliberately making the Italian operating entity look insolvent."
Roman stood behind Evelyn, his eyes narrowing as he read the numbers. "He manufactured the default. He starved the Italian company so he could claim the original debt was never satisfied, giving him the legal pretext to call the balloon payment on Salvatore’s guarantee."
"He committed corporate fraud under both European Union trade law and Italian commercial statutes," Gabriel said from across the table, taking a sip of scotch. "The bastard is running a bust-out scheme against his own consortium."
"Which means," Evelyn said, turning around to face Roman, "the debt doesn't exist. It's a fraudulent claim."
"Try explaining that to an international arbitration tribunal while Matteo’s hitmen are sitting in sedans outside the Foundation," Gabriel warned. "Civil courts take three years to unravel an offshore shell game in Cyprus. In three years, Matteo will have burned down half of our operations."
Roman’s phone rang. It was an unlisted number.
He put it on speaker and laid it in the center of the mahogany table.
"Speak," Roman said.
"Roman, dear boy," Matteo’s voice purred through the speaker, silky and mocking. "I trust your charming wife has treated her cut? Broken glass can leave nasty infections if one isn't careful."
Roman’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table, but his voice remained steady, flat, and chillingly devoid of emotion. "You're burning daylight, Matteo. State your business."
"I have arranged a luncheon tomorrow at the Chicago Yacht Club. Twelve o'clock sharp. You will bring the initial payment—fifty million in bearer shares, transferred to the account details my lawyer will provide. If the transfer is not initiated before the soup course is finished, a very unfortunate incident will occur at the residence of your chief of staff. What was her name again? Vanessa Lane?"
Vanessa froze, her eyes darting to Gabriel. Gabriel’s hand moved instinctively to his waistband.
"Don't flatter yourself, Matteo," Evelyn spoke directly toward the phone, her tone dripping with venom. "Vanessa worked undercover inside Charles Vale’s network while you were still bribing port inspectors in Naples. If you send your two clowns to her apartment, make sure you send a cleanup crew behind them."
A pause on the other end. Then a cruel laugh. "Such fire. But fire burns the house down, Signora Castellano. Tomorrow. Noon. Do not disappoint me."
The line went dead.
Vanessa exhaled a long, shuddering breath. "Well. It's nice to know I'm still on someone's hit list. It keeps me young."
"Nobody is touching you, Vanessa," Roman said, turning to her with absolute finality. "Gabriel, take her to the safe house in Naperville tonight."
"No," Vanessa said firmly. "I’m not running. I spent six months hiding from Charles Vale after Evelyn threw that ring at me. I'm done sitting in safe houses eating canned soup while men decide my fate. I have a friend at the Italian consulate on Michigan Avenue. If Matteo used a diplomatic cover to enter the country while running an active Cyprus laundering operation, the Italian financial police—the Guardia di Finanza—would love to see those Panama leaks."
Evelyn looked at Vanessa, then at Roman. "She's right. Matteo thinks we're divided. He thinks Roman is a defanged tiger, I'm a bitter wife, and Vanessa is a disposable asset. He’s operating on thirty-year-old mafia assumptions."
May you like
Roman looked at the three of them—his wife who had brought him to his knees, her uncle who had once sworn to kill him, and the woman who had pretended to be his mistress to dismantle an empire. A slow, terrifyingly confident smile spread across Roman's face.
"He wants the old Castellano," Roman murmured, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling them up his forearms. "Let’s show him what happens when the new one doesn't fight alone."
