Chapter 3 - The Vault of Secret Evidence
The attic of the Hale estate was a cavernous space filled with generations of forgotten furniture, shrouded in white dust sheets that looked like ghosts standing in the dim light of a single overhead bulb.
Roman marched up the narrow wooden stairs, his boots thudding heavily against the steps. Behind him, Thomas escorted a handcuffed Vivian, while Hannah stayed downstairs with the girls under the watchful eye of two armed guards.
“Where is Margaret?” Roman demanded, stopping in front of a heavy iron-banded oak door at the far end of the hallway—a door Roman himself hadn't opened in twenty years.
Vivian spat blood onto the floorboards, her eyes bloodshot and blazing with hatred. “My mother isn't here, you arrogant bastard. She left for the city hours ago. You’ll never find what you’re looking for.”
“We’ll see about that,” Roman said.
He didn't bother looking for a key. He stepped back, raised his right boot, and kicked the lock with enough force to splinter the oak frame entirely. The heavy door swung inward with a loud groan, revealing a room that bore no resemblance to a dusty attic storage space.
It was an office.
A sleek, modern, climate-controlled command center hidden beneath the eaves of the Victorian mansion. Multiple computer monitors lined the walls, displaying live camera feeds of every room in the estate—including angles Roman knew nothing about, hidden pinhole lenses embedded in smoke detectors and picture frames.
In the center of the room sat a massive steel filing cabinet, its drawers labeled with meticulous, typewriter-printed tabs: HALE, C. / FINANCIALS, VANCE, R. / ASSETS, CORRESPONDENCE - 2024.
“My God,” Thomas breathed, stepping past Roman and sweeping his tactical flashlight across the room. “She’s been spying on you for years, boss. Every phone call, every meeting, every guest.”
Roman walked slowly toward the filing cabinet. His fingers brushed the cold metal handle of the drawer labeled CLAIRE.
He pulled it open.
Inside weren't just financial statements. There were medical records, psychiatric evaluations, intercepted letters, and bank transfer receipts. At the very front of the file was a yellowed hospital intake form bearing Claire’s signature, dated three weeks before her death.
“She was poisoning her,” Roman whispered, the words tasting like copper and ash.
Thomas stepped closer, shining his light on the page. “What?”
“Claire wasn't depressed. She wasn't suicidal,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a register so chilling that even Thomas took a step back. “Margaret and Vivian. They were slipping slow-acting sedatives into her tea. The autopsy report... the one I never questioned because I trusted Margaret... it was falsified. The coroner was on the Sloan payroll.”
Vivian let out a shrill, hysterical laugh from where she sat bound on a wooden chair.
“You think you’re so smart, Roman! You think you own the city! But you were just a cash cow for us! My mother raised you, she raised this estate, and Claire came in here with her modern ideas, trying to change the wills, trying to take Lily away to London! She had to be eliminated!”
Roman turned around slowly. The last shred of humanity in his eyes flicked off, replaced by the lethal, calculating darkness that made men fear him across three states.
“Where is Margaret?” Roman asked.
“She’s meeting with your biggest rival, Victor Vance,” Vivian sneered, blood dripping from her lip. “They’re signing over the holding company right now. By midnight, Hale Enterprises won't belong to you anymore. You’ll be ruined, broke, and sitting in a prison cell for crimes you didn't commit—and murders you couldn't stop.”
Roman pulled out his encrypted satellite phone. His thumb tapped a single speed-dial icon.
“Thomas,” Roman said quietly.
May you like
“Boss?”
“Call the tactical teams. I want every road out of Cook County blocked. And someone tell the pilot to warm up the chopper on the north pad.” Roman looked down at Vivian with absolute contempt. “We’re going to crash a meeting.”
