Chapter 5 - A Debt Unpaid
"I... I can pay it back!" Trevor gasped, his hands flying to his pockets, frantically digging out a sleek designer leather wallet. His fingers were shaking so hard he dropped two black credit cards onto the floor. "I have cash! I have accounts! I’ll give her ten thousand! A hundred thousand! Whatever you want, Mr. Vance, please!"
Roman didn't look down at the cards. He didn't even blink.
"Money from you is filthy," Roman said. "My wife doesn't touch dirty money."
Roman pulled a slim, custom encrypted smartphone from his inner jacket pocket. He unlocked it with a thumbprint and tapped a single contact on speed dial. He didn't bring the phone to his ear; he simply put it on speaker and held it flat in the palm of his hand.
After half a ring, a voice answered. It was Marcus Sterling—older, wheezing, and laced with absolute deference.
"Mr. Vance! An honor, sir. I didn't expect to hear from you until tomorrow's closing."
Trevor froze. His mouth fell open, a silent scream caught in his throat.
"Marcus," Roman said smoothly. "I am standing in the North Wing of the Galleria. With your nephew."
There was an immediate, sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Trevor? Is he... is everything alright, Mr. Vance? Is he signing the tenant lease documents?"
"Your nephew just committed aggravated assault against my wife," Roman said, his tone as casual as if he were reading the weather report. "He kicked her to the floor of a boutique. He insulted her. And he reminded her of a six-hundred-dollar theft he committed against her three years ago."
A dead, suffocating silence dropped over the call. For five full seconds, the only sound coming through the speaker was Marcus Sterling's ragged, terrified breathing.
"Mr. Vance," Marcus choked out, his voice instantly dropping two octaves into raw, unadulterated panic. "Mr. Vance, I swear on my life, I didn't know—I have nothing to do with this! Trevor is an idiot! He’s a reckless, arrogant fool! Please, don't let this affect our portfolio—"
"At four o'clock today," Roman interrupted calmly, "the Sterling Financial credit line is being called in full. Every dollar. Furthermore, your contracts with the port logistics hubs are terminated effective immediately. By five o'clock, the state ethics board will receive a file detailing your nephew’s offshore shell accounts. By six o'clock, he will not have a license to practice law or trade securities in this country."
"Uncle Marcus!" Trevor shrieked, lunging forward on his knees toward the phone in Roman’s hand. "Uncle Marcus, help me! Tell him! Tell him I'm sorry!"
One of Roman's security guards stepped forward with fluid, terrifying speed, planting the heavy sole of his boot firmly against Trevor’s chest and shoving him backward. Trevor hit the marble hard, his head bouncing against the base of the display case with a sharp *crack*.
"Trevor, you miserable bastard!" Marcus screamed through the speaker, all familial love incinerated by the impending destruction of his entire empire. "You destroyed us! You ruined my firm! You are dead to me! Do you hear me? You are fired! You don't have a job, you don't have a trust fund, you have *nothing*! Get out of my sight and don't you dare ever use my name again!"
The line went dead. A hollow beep sounded from the phone before Roman tapped the screen and slid it back into his pocket.
The boutique was a tomb.
Trevor lay on the floor, clutching his chest, staring at the ceiling with glazed, shattered eyes. In less than three minutes, his career, his status, his wealth, and his entire future had been vaporized into ash.
Vanessa, standing in the corner, looked down at him with utter revulsion. She didn't offer a hand. She didn't offer a word of comfort. She stepped over his dropped credit cards, turned on her designer heels, and walked out of the store without looking back once.
Roman didn't spare Trevor another glance. He turned fully toward Sadi.
His expression shifted completely. The cold, mechanical brutality that had just annihilated an entire financial dynasty melted away, replaced by an intense, burning vigilance. He reached out, his warm, scarred fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind Sadi’s ear.
"Can you walk?" he asked softly.
"I can walk," she said, though when she took a half-step forward, a sharp pain shot up her calf, causing her to wince slightly.
Before she could protest, Roman scooped her up into his arms, lifting her against his chest as effortlessly as if she were made of air. Sadi gasped softly, her instincts from twenty-six years of poverty telling her to hide, to make herself small, to not cause a scene in public. But Roman held her firm, his vicuña coat wrapping around her like an impenetrable fortress.
"Roman, people are looking," she whispered against his lapel.
"Let them look," Roman replied, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "Let them see what happens when someone touches what belongs to me."
He turned and carried her out of the boutique.
Behind them, Dante—Roman’s lead enforcer—lingered in the doorway. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out six crisp, brand-new one-hundred-dollar bills, and dropped them onto Trevor’s chest like dirt falling into an open grave.
May you like
"That's your refund, kid," Dante said quietly. "Keep the change. You’re going to need it for the hospital bill if you’re still in this city by midnight."
***
