Chapter 5 - The War in the Ledger
For the next three weeks, Blackwood Estate became a war room.
I was confined to the north wing—a luxurious suite of rooms overlooking the misty pine forests of upstate New York. Every morning at 8:00 AM, Grant brought a stack of ledgers, encrypted hard drives, and financial printouts to my sitting room table.
I hated Roman for holding Blackwater Cove over my head. I hated him for bringing me back to this gold-plated cage.
But as I began diving into the accounts, my anger slowly transformed into cold, analytical horror.
The damage to Northstar Atlantic was far worse than Roman had admitted.
A syndicate known as the Iron Syndicate—a coalition of former Marrow captains, corrupt port authorities, and a high-ranking federal prosecutor named Victor Vance—had systematically seized control of Roman’s offshore liquidity. They were funneling millions through a ghost network in Panama, bleeding Roman’s legal businesses dry while funding a private army to eliminate him.
They weren't just trying to bankrupt Roman. They were planning a coordinated strike on Blackwood Estate itself.
Late one evening, around 1:00 AM, the door to my study opened quietly.
Roman walked in. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair messy as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. He carried a tray with a pot of hot cinnamon tea and two porcelain cups.
I looked up from my laptop, my eyes burning with exhaustion. "What is this?"
"You drink cinnamon tea when you're stressed," Roman said simply, setting the tray on the edge of my desk.
"I'm stressed because I'm being held hostage by a warlord," I said dryly.
Roman didn't rise to the bait. He poured a cup of tea and slid it toward me. Then he pulled a chair up to the opposite side of the table and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"What did you find?" he asked softly.
I hesitated, looking at the steaming tea, then back at the dark circles beneath his eyes. Despite my anger, the accountant in me couldn't hide the truth.
"Victor Vance has issued a sealed federal indictment for your arrest," I said, turning the laptop screen toward him. "It’s scheduled to be unsealed in four days. At the same time, the Iron Syndicate is moving two dozen armed men into the docks at Montauk to seize your primary shipping depot."
Roman looked at the screen, his expression unreadable. "Vance has been on my payroll for six years."
"He found a bigger payroll," I replied. "Roman... if this indictment goes through, you won't just lose your territory. You’ll be spent in a federal supermax prison for the rest of your life."
Roman didn't look at the screen. He looked at me.
"Then fix it, Evelyn," he said softly.
I stared at him, incredulous. "Fix it?! Roman, this is a federal trap backed by an armed syndicate! I am an accountant, not a magician!"
Roman reached across the table. His long, calloused fingers wrapped gently over mine, warm and steady.
"You are the smartest person I have ever known," Roman said, his voice dropping into a rough, earnest whisper that made my heart leap into my throat. "You found what no one else could see four years ago. You survived seven months on the run from my entire network. If anyone can break them... it’s you."
I looked down at his hand covering mine, feeling the undeniable, terrifying pull between us that seven months of running had failed to erase.
"And if I fix this for you," I whispered, looking up into his gray eyes. "What do I get?"
May you like
Roman’s grip tightened on my hand, his eyes burning with a fierce, absolute promise.
"You get your freedom," Roman declared. "Real freedom. No guards. No cameras. No threats. You fix this, and I will let you walk away... if that's still what you want."
