Chapter 2 - The Ghost of St. Jude
The air in Roman’s private office grew suffocating. Outside the high floor windows, rain began to lash against the glass, blurring the skyline into streaks of gray and black. Roman leaned forward, resting both hands on the mahogany desk, his dark eyes probing mine with lethal precision.
“Tessa,” he repeated, lower this time, an edge of command cutting through his quiet tone. “Who is he?”
I forced my lungs to expand, my fingers digging into the hem of my blazer. I could lie. In Roman’s world, lying to the boss was a death sentence, but telling the truth might bring an even quicker catastrophe.
“His name is Julian Vance,” I whispered, the name tasting like ash on my tongue. “Three years ago, he was driving the truck that ran a red light on Fourth and Atlantic. The crash that crushed Leo’s spine.”
Roman’s gaze didn’t waver, but his pupils dilated slightly. “The police report on your brother’s accident ruled it an unsolved hit-and-run. Stolen vehicle, abandoned two blocks away, wiped clean.”
“Because Julian Vance didn't leave fingerprints,” I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “I saw him get out of that truck. He stood under the streetlamp for five seconds, looking right at me while Leo screamed in the passenger seat. Then he vanished into the alley. When I described him to the precinct detectives, they told me I was in shock and seeing ghosts. Two weeks later, the file was buried.”
Roman picked up the photograph. His thumb traced the sharp jawline of Julian Vance. “He isn't a ghost, Tessa. He’s the top enforcer for Hector Moretti.”
A chill went straight through me. The Moretti family was the only syndicate in the tri-state area ruthless enough to challenge Roman for control of the shipping terminals. If Julian worked for Moretti, Leo’s crash was never an ordinary accident.
“Why would Moretti’s man target Leo?” I asked, panic clawing at my throat. “Leo was nineteen. He was a music student. He had nothing to do with any of this.”
“He didn't,” Roman said softly, stepping around the desk until he was barely an arm's length away. “I did.”
I looked up, stunned. “What are you saying?”
“Three years ago, on the night of November twelfth, I was scheduled to travel down Atlantic Avenue in an unmarked black sedan. My route was changed at the last minute because of a security tip from Carlo.” Roman’s jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulged. “Your brother drove through that intersection three minutes before I was supposed to be there. The car he was driving was the exact make, model, and color of my decoy.”
The room seemed to tilt. The endless medical bills. Leo’s destroyed legs. The agonizing nights listening to him weep in the dark. It hadn’t been bad luck. It was a botched assassination meant for the man standing in front of me.
Before I could speak, the heavy oak door swung open without a knock. Carlo stepped inside, his sharp Italian suit pristine, a ledger tucked beneath his arm. His smug grin vanished the moment he saw the two of us standing so close, the surveillance photos scattered across the desk.
“Boss,” Carlo said, his eyes darting between Roman and me. “You told me to run a forensic audit on Tessa’s domestic transfers. I have the bank statements right here.”
Roman didn't look at the files. He kept his eyes pinned on Carlo. “Keep them, Carlo. The twenty thousand didn't go to Tessa.”
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Carlo’s eyebrows twitched, a micro-expression of panic flashing across his features before he smoothed it away. “Are you sure, boss? Because someone authorized that withdrawal using her security badge yesterday at four o’clock.”
My pulse spiked. Yesterday at four o’clock, I had been in the archive room on the sublevel, where Carlo had personally sent me to organize five years of tax returns—leaving my desk and computer terminal completely unattended.
