Chapter 5 - Nobody Threatens My Family
I marched into Roman's study carrying my phone.
He was speaking with three men around a conference table.
One wore a tailored navy suit and expensive glasses.
Another had a shaved head and tattooed hands.
Vincent stood near the window.
All four men turned when I entered.
Roman's expression sharpened.
"Maggie?"
I placed the phone in front of him.
"Somebody is threatening Walter."
He examined the photograph.
The room changed.
Nobody moved.
Then Roman looked toward the man in glasses.
"Malcolm."
The man lifted his eyebrows.
"Yes?"
"Did you contact a veterans' residence in Philadelphia?"
Malcolm Price was in his early fifties, neat and thin, with an expensive watch and a voice that sounded permanently irritated.
"One of our charitable partners requested a welfare confirmation."
"Which partner?"
"I'd have to check."
Roman pushed the phone across the table.
"Then check."
Malcolm looked at the image.
His expression barely changed.
"That seems unfortunate."
I stared at him.
"Unfortunate?"
He turned toward me.
"Ms. Sullivan, I understand you're new here. But discussing private security matters during executive meetings is inappropriate."
I smiled.
It was not a friendly smile.
"And threatening elderly veterans is inappropriate. Yet apparently we're having a very educational week."
His face hardened.
"You misunderstand the nature of our operations."
"Then explain it."
Roman raised one hand.
"Malcolm. Leave the room."
Malcolm looked astonished.
"Roman, we haven't finished reviewing the transfer approvals."
"They can wait."
A muscle moved in Malcolm's jaw.
He gathered his papers and left.
The other executive followed.
When the door closed, Roman turned to Vincent.
"Move Walter."
I raised a hand.
"With his consent."
Roman looked at me.
"With his consent."
"And tell his medical team why."
"Agreed."
Vincent nodded.
Then he examined the photograph.
"That image was taken outside the residence, not inside. Whoever sent it had someone watching the entrance."
"Can you trace the number?" I asked.
"Possibly. We'll preserve the message and ask our investigator to examine it."
"An independent investigator?"
Roman studied me.
"You're not going to let me forget that distinction, are you?"
"Not while I'm breathing."
For the first time that morning, his mouth almost curved.
Vincent left to contact the residence and its security manager.
I stayed.
Roman looked exhausted.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes.
I realized he probably hadn't slept much more than I had.
"I found an attorney," I told him.
"Good."
"Her name is Nadia Ortiz."
Roman looked interested.
"I know her reputation."
"She's independent. She represents people who can't afford to fight powerful organizations."
"She also doesn't like my family."
"Excellent. We already have something in common."
Roman almost smiled.
"Will she meet with you?"
"Tomorrow."
He nodded.
Then I asked the question I'd been avoiding.
"If Walter gets hurt, what happens?"
Roman didn't answer immediately.
"Whoever threatens him will face consequences."
"What kind?"
"The kind the evidence supports."
I watched him carefully.
"Roman, I don't want anyone killed for me."
His jaw tightened.
"You're asking a dangerous man to change the way he handles dangerous problems."
"I'm asking a grown man to stop making excuses."
For a long moment, we stared at each other.
Then he lowered his eyes.
"Fair enough."
I returned to the kitchen.
It was nearly lunch.
And the men were hungry.
Again.
I was beginning to believe Roman had hired thirty industrial furnaces disguised as human beings.
By eleven, I'd prepared a large pot of chicken soup, baked bread, and sliced enough vegetables to feed a small school.
Eli helped chop carrots.
Sal managed the bread.
A quiet man named Luis Delgado washed dishes without being asked.
Luis was thirty-eight, with close-cropped black hair, a careful manner, and faded tattoos along his wrists.
He'd worked as an emergency medical technician before joining Roman's transportation division.
"Why'd you leave medicine?" I asked.
He continued rinsing plates.
"My brother got sick. Needed money. Roman offered more than the ambulance service paid."
"Did your brother recover?"
Luis smiled faintly.
"Yeah. He's married now. Two kids."
"And you stayed?"
The smile disappeared.
"It's complicated."
I knew that answer.
By now, I'd heard it from half the house.
These men had reasons for entering Roman's world.
Poverty.
Debt.
Violence.
Family obligations.
Bad choices.
Some had been victims.
Some had victimized others.
I wasn't naive enough to confuse suffering with innocence.
But I was learning that even men who had done terrible things could miss their mothers, worry about their children, and feel lost without understanding why.
That afternoon, I introduced a new kitchen rule.
Anyone eating there would help clean afterward.
Sal announced this was tyranny.
Eli called it a revolution.
Luis quietly began loading the dishwasher.
By dinner, seven men had volunteered to help.
By the next morning, twelve were competing for the privilege of tasting whatever came out of my oven first.
It was ridiculous.
It was also the first thing that had made me genuinely happy in weeks.
Two days later, Ravenwood hosted a charitable food distribution event.
Roman's businesses had been donating supplies to neighborhood pantries for years.
The event was meant to deliver winter food packages to three Chicago community centers.
I inspected the supplies because I'd spent my adult life managing inventories.
And something was wrong.
We had received invoices for four hundred food boxes.
Only two hundred eighty-six stood in the loading bay.
I counted twice.
Then I examined the delivery records.
According to the paperwork, all four hundred had arrived.
I found Eli beside a delivery van.
"Where are the missing boxes?"
He frowned.
"What boxes?"
"One hundred fourteen cases of winter food."
He checked the shipping manifest.
"Everything was signed for."
"By whom?"
He pointed.
M. Price.
Malcolm Price.
I looked at the signature.
"Where's Roman?"
"Upstairs."
"Get him."
Eli hesitated.
"Maggie, maybe we should tell Vincent."
"No. Get Roman."
Ten minutes later, Roman stood beside me in the loading bay.
Malcolm arrived looking irritated.
"What's the emergency?"
I handed Roman the manifest.
"Someone billed your charity for four hundred food boxes and delivered fewer than three hundred."
Malcolm waved a hand.
"Administrative discrepancy."
"That's one hundred fourteen missing packages."
"They may have been rerouted."
"Then there should be a routing record."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed.
"Ms. Sullivan, you are employed to manage the kitchen."
"And kitchens involve food. It's right there in the name."
Roman examined the paperwork.
"Where did the missing packages go?"
Malcolm looked toward Eli.
"Perhaps one of the drivers made an error."
Eli stiffened.
"I followed the route."
"Then perhaps you miscounted."
I stepped forward.
"He didn't miscount. The warehouse invoice was approved before the delivery truck arrived."
Malcolm's face changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
He hadn't expected me to notice the timestamps.
Roman read them.
Then he turned toward Malcolm.
"Bring me the complete transfer records."
"This is hardly worth—"
"Now."
Malcolm's mouth tightened.
He walked away.
Roman studied me.
"You found that in fifteen minutes?"
"Inventory management isn't decorative, Mr. Duca."
Something like admiration appeared in his eyes.
Then he looked at the boxes.
"How quickly can we get replacements?"
I crossed my arms.
"Depends. Are we using real food or imaginary food?"
He laughed once.
"Real."
We purchased replacement supplies from a wholesale distributor.
The three community centers received their deliveries that afternoon.
But Roman's accounting team discovered something disturbing.
The missing boxes weren't an isolated problem.
Several Duca charities had paid for shipments that were never delivered.
The payments went through a transportation company called Arborline Distribution.
When Roman showed me the company's old registration documents, I felt sick.
Arborline.
Walter had mentioned a freight company operating under different names.
And in my mother's notebook, one of the handwritten codes ended with the letters A.L.
That evening, Nadia Ortiz arrived.
She was forty-one, with shoulder-length black hair, sharp eyes, and the calm presence of someone accustomed to standing up to powerful people.
We met privately in a small sitting room away from Roman's office.
I showed her the letters, photographs, and notes.
She examined everything carefully.
Then she asked about the original evidence.
"Where is it?"
"In my room."
"We need to preserve it properly. No more unnecessary handling. Keep the originals in protective sleeves, make clear records of where you found them, and don't give anything to Roman's employees without consulting me."
I nodded.
"Can we clear my father's name?"
"Possibly. But we need admissible evidence, a credible witness, and a prosecutor willing to reopen the case."
"Roman says the company was involved."
"Roman is also potentially a witness, a suspect, and someone with serious conflicts of interest."
I looked down.
"I know."
Nadia softened.
"Maggie, I understand how much this means to you. But don't confuse a powerful man's interest in justice with an obligation to trust him."
I thought of Roman's face when he'd admitted his father knew.
Then I thought of the threatened photograph of Walter.
"I won't."
Nadia arranged to speak with Walter through his caseworker.
She also recommended contacting federal investigators through counsel because the records suggested possible interstate financial crimes.
For the first time in twenty-two years, the possibility of proving my father's innocence felt real.
Terrifying.
But real.
The next morning, Sal appeared in the kitchen unusually quiet.
I was rolling biscuit dough.
He stood near the doorway with an envelope in his hand.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
He shook his head.
Then he placed the envelope on the counter.
Inside was a Christmas card.
On the front was a little girl holding a puppy.
The card had been mailed five years earlier.
I opened it.
Dad,
I don't know if you remember my birthday anymore.
I'm getting married next spring.
I wish things were different.
Love, Isabella.
I looked up.
Sal stared at the floor.
"My daughter."
I handed him the card.
"Why haven't you seen her?"
He swallowed.
"Her mother got tired of waiting for me to come home. I missed birthdays. School plays. Christmas. I made promises and broke them."
He looked toward the window.
"Then Isabella found out what I did for a living."
I said nothing.
"She told me she didn't want her children growing up afraid of their grandfather."
"Does she have children?"
"A boy. Three years old."
His voice broke on the last word.
I put down the rolling pin.
"Have you apologized?"
"More than once."
"Have you changed?"
He looked at me helplessly.
"I don't know how."
I considered him.
"Start by learning what kind of man she needs you to be. Not what kind of man you think can scare her into forgiving you."
Sal looked ashamed.
"I'd never hurt my daughter."
"I believe you. But fear isn't always about what you'll do to someone. Sometimes it's about what your choices bring to their door."
He sat heavily.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked, "You think she might forgive me someday?"
"I don't know, Sal. But you can become a better man whether she does or not."
His eyes filled.
He turned away quickly.
I pretended not to notice.
That afternoon, Sal asked Roman to transfer him out of the enforcement division.
Roman was stunned.
Sal had worked for the Ducas for twenty-six years.
He was one of their most feared men.
Now he wanted to supervise warehouse maintenance.
"Why?" Roman asked.
Sal shrugged.
"Figured I'd rather fix broken doors than break people's faces."
Roman examined him.
Then he nodded.
"All right."
When Sal told me, I gave him a biscuit.
He looked disappointed.
"That's it?"
"What were you expecting?"
"A medal."
"Wash the baking sheets."
He groaned.
But he did it.
Three days later, the second threat arrived.
This time, nobody left a note.
Someone sabotaged the brakes on one of Ravenwood's supply vans.
The mechanic discovered it during a routine inspection, before anyone drove the vehicle.
Vincent examined security footage.
The cameras near the garage had been disabled for exactly seventeen minutes.
The technician who supposedly inspected them had disappeared.
Roman increased security.
Walter was moved, with his consent, to a residential recovery facility whose administrators coordinated with investigators.
And for the first time, I saw Roman genuinely frightened.
Not for himself.
For the people around him.
That night, he came into the kitchen after everyone else had gone to bed.
I was making tea.
He stood near the counter.
"You're putting yourself in danger."
I didn't look up.
"That's becoming clear."
"You can leave. I'll help you find another job."
I stirred honey into my cup.
"Do you want me gone?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
I looked at him.
He seemed almost embarrassed.
Then he said, "I don't want you hurt."
I studied the hard lines of his face.
"Roman, my father died with the word 'arsonist' attached to his name. My mother spent half her life begging people to listen."
I set the spoon down.
"If there's one chance to prove they were telling the truth, I'm not leaving because somebody thinks I'm easy to scare."
Roman looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
He lowered his eyes.
"Probably not."
I poured him a cup of tea.
He accepted it.
For several minutes, we stood together in silence.
Then he said, "Your mother made tea like this."
I turned.
"What?"
"Honey. Lemon. A little cinnamon."
I stared at him.
"She said it made cold mornings bearable."
Roman looked down at his cup.
"She gave it to me the night she pulled me out of that locked room."
I felt my throat tighten.
"She saved your life."
"Yes."
"Then help me save her name."
His jaw moved.
"I will."
I wanted to believe him.
I almost did.
But the following afternoon, Nadia called with news that changed everything.
She had obtained a copy of the original fire investigation file.
And hidden among the archived witness interviews was a name neither of us expected.
A witness who had requested anonymity in 2004.
A witness who claimed to have seen Patrick Sullivan leave the warehouse before the fire began.
The statement had never been shown to his defense attorney.
May you like
The witness's name was Roman Duca.
And he had testified against my father anyway.
