Chapter 3 - The Rotten Thread
By 1:00 AM, the estate was silent save for the drumming of heavy rain against the study windows.
Roman sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a glass of neat scotch resting untouched beside an open black ledger. The warmth of the single desk lamp illuminated the sharp lines of his face as he flipped through the estate’s internal payroll accounts.
Something wasn't adding up.
Roman allocated nearly two hundred thousand dollars a year solely for the domestic staff's payroll, healthcare, and overtime bonuses. He paid well above market rate specifically so his employees would be loyal, quiet, and content.
Yet Maya Collins had been working eighteen-hour double shifts for six consecutive days. Her basic wage records showed she was barely making minimum wage after 'payroll deductions.'
Roman’s jaw tightened. He pressed a button on his desk intercom.
“Send Marcus up.”
Five minutes later, Marcus Rossi walked into the study.
Marcus was forty-five, polished, wearing a sleek grey suit with a silver watch gleaming on his wrist. He had been Roman’s chief financial administrator and trusted lieutenant for nearly ten years. He managed the estate’s books, handled the shell companies, and organized the staff payroll.
“You called, Don DeLuca?” Marcus asked, offering a respectful nod. “Is there an issue with the quarterly trucking reports?”
“Sit down, Marcus,” Roman said softly.
Marcus took a seat in one of the leather armchairs, his posture relaxed, confident.
Roman pushed the physical payroll ledger across the desk. “Explain to me why Maya Collins worked seventy-four hours last week and took home four hundred dollars.”
Marcus didn't blink. His smooth, practiced smile remained firmly in place. “Ah. Maya. She’s a hard worker, boss, but she has significant personal debts. Medical bills from her late pregnancy, back rent from before she lived here. She routinely requests voluntary overtime, and we withhold portions of her pay to clear her outstanding third-party liens.”
“Which third-party liens?” Roman asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Just local collection agencies,” Marcus waved a hand dismissively. “I handle them personally so the estate doesn't face legal garnishments. It’s routine housekeeping, Roman. Nothing for you to worry your head about.”
Roman watched Marcus closely.
For ten years, Roman had trusted Marcus with his life and his money. But as he looked at Marcus’s pristine silver watch—a fifty-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe—a cold suspicion began to coil around Roman’s gut.
Maya didn't have medical liens. Roman remembered personally clearing the staff’s medical debts through his private charitable trust two years ago when Margaret Ellis had brought the issue to his attention.
Marcus was lying.
“Where are the original physical receipts for the staff deductions, Marcus?” Roman asked, his tone dropping an octave.
Marcus’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second. “They’re archived in the sub-cellar vaults under the old wine room, boss. I can pull them for you tomorrow morning if you’d like.”
“Do that,” Roman said flatly. “And Marcus?”
“Yes, Roman?”
“If I find out someone in this house is stealing food out of a three-year-old child's mouth, I won't send them to prison. I’ll bury them beneath the driveway.”
Marcus’s throat moved in a hard swallow, but he nodded quickly. “Of course, Don DeLuca. I’ll have the files on your desk by eight.”
May you like
As Marcus exited the study and closed the heavy oak doors behind him, Roman reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a encrypted satellite phone, and dialed his chief enforcer, Antonio.
“Antonio,” Roman growled into the receiver. “Put two discreet units on Marcus Rossi. Audit every account he has touched in the last five years. Don't let him know you’re looking.”
