Chapter 7 - The Price of Becoming a Better Man
Sebastian was in federal custody.
Leo was safe.
The evidence had been delivered.
I thought that meant the nightmare was ending.
Instead, a different kind of battle began.
Roman was indicted six weeks later.
Not for murder.
Not for Sebastian’s crimes.
For financial offenses committed by companies he had inherited and continued operating after his father’s death.
The prosecutor acknowledged Roman’s cooperation.
That did not erase everything.
He had signed documents.
Moved money.
Protected men.
Even if his purpose had eventually become dismantling the organization, Roman had spent years trying to clean up a criminal empire from the inside without going to authorities.
That choice had consequences.
When the indictment became public, reporters camped outside the estate.
Roman turned himself in wearing the same expression he had worn while bleeding in the alley.
Calm.
Controlled.
I hated it.
I wanted him angry.
I wanted him afraid.
I wanted proof that this mattered.
Instead, he adjusted his cuffs and told Marcus to make sure Leo’s school route changed because of photographers.
“You could go to prison,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Say something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something human.”
His eyes met mine.
“I’m terrified.”
That was enough.
The government offered a deal.
Full cooperation.
Asset forfeiture.
Probation or limited incarceration depending on the court.
Roman accepted.
“No trial?” I asked.
“No.”
“You could fight.”
“I could.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
He looked at me.
“Because some of the charges are true.”
I sat quietly.
He continued.
“My father taught me that admitting guilt was weakness. Sebastian taught me consequences were for people without enough money.”
Roman looked toward the window.
“If I spend the rest of my life trying to become different while using their rules whenever they benefit me, then I am not different.”
I loved him then.
I did not say it.
Not yet.
Instead, I kissed him.
Roman froze.
Actually froze.
I pulled back.
His pale eyes stared at me.
“That was unexpected.”
“That was a terrible response.”
“I’ve been indicted. My social skills are distracted.”
I laughed.
Then he kissed me.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Nothing like the violence surrounding his world.
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to want something beyond survival.
That scared me more than any gun had.
Roman’s sentencing came four months later.
The judge considered his cooperation, the lives saved by his evidence, and his voluntary surrender of millions in assets.
Eighteen months in federal prison.
My heart broke anyway.
Leo cried.
Luca cursed.
Marcus punched a wall.
Roman simply nodded.
That evening we sat on the estate terrace.
“You don’t have to wait,” he said.
I stared.
“Excuse me?”
“For me.”
“Were you planning to become dramatically stupid before prison or is this spontaneous?”
“Natalie.”
“No.”
“You deserve a normal life.”
“So do you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You have Leo.”
“Yes.”
“And being connected to me makes both of you targets for every reporter and every enemy I ever made.”
“Most of your enemies are in prison.”
“Not all.”
I moved closer.
“You do not get to decide what I can handle.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“No. You’re trying to leave before I can.”
That hit him.
I knew because his expression changed.
“You think I’ll leave.”
“I know people leave.”
“Your father died.”
“My brother disappeared.”
“Your mother died.”
“Yes.”
“And now you think loving people means preparing for them to vanish.”
Roman looked away.
I touched his face.
“I am not promising life will be easy.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m promising that if I choose you, that is my choice.”
His hand covered mine.
“What are you choosing?”
I smiled through tears.
“You.”
Roman kissed me.
He reported to prison two weeks later.
Eighteen months sounds short when compared to ten years.
It does not feel short when someone you love is behind concrete walls.
Leo drew Roman pictures.
Dinosaurs.
Cars.
One confusing image apparently showing Roman fighting a shark.
Roman kept all of them.
I visited twice a month.
Luca came sometimes.
Their relationship slowly healed.
Not perfectly.
Real wounds never disappear because of one hug.
But they spoke.
Argued.
Remembered.
Forgave.
Meanwhile, I returned to LaRue.
Not as a waitress.
Roman had transferred ownership before sentencing to a trust controlled by employees.
The new board offered me an operations position.
I almost refused.
Then I remembered every server David had humiliated.
Every cook afraid to complain.
Every employee whose tips had disappeared.
I accepted.
Within nine months, LaRue became one of the first high-end restaurants in Chicago to offer fully paid health insurance to all full-time kitchen and service staff.
Roman heard about it during visiting day.
“You’re spending all my money.”
“It isn’t your money anymore.”
He smiled.
“Even better.”
Leo’s ear infection disappeared.
Our electricity stayed on.
Eventually, we moved from our apartment.
Not into Roman’s estate.
Into a modest house with a yard.
I paid the mortgage myself.
That mattered.
One afternoon, eleven months into Roman’s sentence, a woman entered LaRue.
Seventeen.
Blonde.
Nervous.
“Are you Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Claire Keller.”
David’s daughter.
I immediately understood.
“Is your father okay?”
“He’s in witness protection.”
I nodded.
Claire swallowed.
“He wanted me to give you this.”
An envelope.
Inside was a letter from David.
Natalie,
I don’t expect forgiveness.
I spent most of my life pretending cowardice was the same thing as survival.
You showed me the difference.
Your father was brave.
You are too.
There is one thing I never told Roman because I wasn’t certain.
Sebastian had a partner.
Someone outside the organization.
Someone who still has money, influence, and every reason to want the DeLuca evidence buried.
I stared at the letter.
At the bottom was a name.
Senator Charles Whitmore.
I knew it immediately.
Everyone did.
Whitmore had represented Illinois for twenty-two years.
He had also eaten at LaRue.
Private room six.
Dozens of times.
The nightmare was not over.
When I told Roman during our next visit, his face went white.
“Whitmore.”
“You know him.”
“My father financed his first campaign.”
My stomach sank.
“Is he in the ledger?”
“No.”
“That’s good.”
“No.”
Roman leaned closer to the glass.
“That means my father protected him.”
The next morning, federal investigators arrived at LaRue.
They did not come for Whitmore.
They came for me.
A photograph had surfaced showing my father handing cash to a city inspector.
They wanted to know whether I had hidden additional evidence.
Someone was trying to destroy Daniel Brooks’s credibility.
Then newspapers received anonymous documents claiming Roman had fabricated parts of Sebastian’s ledger.
The story spread nationally.
Whitmore appeared on television demanding an investigation into “criminal manipulation of federal institutions.”
Roman called me from prison.
“He’s trying to discredit everything.”
“Can he?”
“If he proves the evidence was altered.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Truth doesn’t always win quickly.”
Then Roman asked the question I feared.
“Where is the original flash drive?”
My blood went cold.
Federal investigators had copies.
But the physical drive my father left me remained in a safety deposit box.
Only I knew where.
“I have it.”
“Do not tell anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because it may contain metadata proving when the files were created.”
That could destroy Whitmore’s accusation.
It could also make me his target.
Again.
Two days later, someone broke into the bank containing the drive.
They found the box empty.
Because I had moved it one hour earlier.
That night, when I returned home, a man was waiting on my porch.
He held no weapon.
He wore an expensive coat.
Silver hair.
Television smile.
Senator Charles Whitmore.
“Ms. Brooks.”
I stopped ten feet away.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
I looked at him.
“No, Senator.”
May you like
My fear hardened into anger.
“It belonged to my father.”
