Chapter 5 - The Lie Detector
The penthouse dining room of the Crown Executive Club overlooked the grey, rain-slicked towers of downtown Chicago. It was a private floor where men who owned factories, docks, and judges met to divide the city’s dark wealth over rare steaks and hundred-year-old cognac.
At the center of the private dining table sat Raymond, the chief financial officer, looking immaculate in a charcoal Italian suit, his gold Rolex gleaming beneath the crystal chandelier. Opposite him sat Julian, dressed in black, slicing a rare filet with surgical precision.
Beside Julian’s chair sat Maisie.
She was wearing a formal white dress, her hair pinned back neatly. Cyrus was absent—Julian had drawn the line at bringing a ninety-pound attack dog into a five-star dining room—but Vic stood directly behind Maisie’s chair, his face a stone wall.
"Julian, really," Raymond chuckled, spreading sweet butter over a warm roll. "Bringing a child to a board reconciliation meeting? It’s... unconventional, even for you."
"The girl is my ward," Julian said smoothly, placing a small piece of meat in his mouth. "She has limited vision, so she accompanies me to public places to adjust to the environment. Pay her no mind, Raymond. Continue your explanation regarding the three million dollars missing from the Nassau accounts."
Raymond wiped his lips with a linen napkin, his smile remaining perfectly in place. "As I showed you in the reports yesterday, Julian, the Bahamian government instituted a temporary freeze on offshore merchant holdings pending an international tax audit. The funds are completely safe. They will be released back to our primary holding company by the fifteenth of next month. You have my word on it."
Julian didn't look at Raymond. He turned his head slightly toward Maisie, who was quietly drinking apple juice through a paper straw.
"Maisie," Julian asked softly. "How does Mr. Raymond's roll taste?"
Raymond blinked, confused. "What?"
Maisie set her cup down without making a sound. She tilted her face toward Raymond's side of the table.
"He's making the bird sound again," Maisie said softly into the quiet room.
Raymond froze, his napkin halfway to his lap. "I beg your pardon?"
"His heart," Maisie explained to Julian, pointing a small finger toward Raymond’s left breast pocket. "It went fast when he said 'Nassau.' Then it went super fast when he said 'fifteenth.' And he pressed his feet really hard into the rug under the table. People do that when they want to run away."
Raymond’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. "Julian, what is this nonsense? Is this a joke? You're letting a blind brat disrupt a multi-million-dollar financial review—"
"Vic," Julian said softly.
Before Raymond could finish his sentence, Vic stepped around the table, grabbed Raymond by his silk tie, and slammed his face flat against the mahogany table. Plates rattled; crystal wine glasses tipped over, spilling red wine across the white tablecloth like blood.
"Check his left jacket pocket," Julian commanded coldly, taking a calm sip of water.
Vic shoved his heavy hand into Raymond's coat, pulling out a sleek black satellite phone and a freshly printed red leather passport from the Republic of Panama.
Julian picked up the passport, opened it, and saw Raymond’s face beside a false name, stamped with a one-way flight authorization to Panama City departing at six o'clock that evening.
Raymond wept into the white tablecloth, his nose bleeding onto the linen. "Julian, please! They threatened my family! The Syndicate in Detroit—they forced me—"
"Take him down to the cellar at the docks," Julian ordered Vic, his voice icy and devoid of any emotion. "Find out which accounts he transferred the money to before you finish with him."
Vic dragged the screaming auditor out of the private dining room, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind them.
Silence returned to the high-rise penthouse.
Julian looked down at the small blind girl sitting beside him. She was picking quietly at a piece of bread, completely unbothered by the violence that had just unfolded three feet away from her face.
"You knew," Julian said softly.
"He was loud," Maisie replied simple. "He smelled like sharp pepper when he got scared."
Julian leaned back in his chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rain falling over Chicago. For twenty years, he had survived in a world built on deceit, knives in the back, and sudden betrayals. He had built an empire, but he had lived like a man trapped in a dark room full of landmines.
May you like
And now, sitting beside him, was a tiny candle.
"Come, Maisie," Julian said, standing up and reaching out his hand. He hesitated for a second—a rare moment of uncertainty—before gently resting his leather-gloved fingers around her small palm. "Let's go home. Cyrus is probably scratching the paint off the library door."
