Chapter 4 - The Golden Ledger
|
Dawn arrived over the city in muted shades of gray and lavender, filtering through the high penthouse windows like frosted silver.
Nora woke up in a guest suite larger than her entire apartment, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets that felt entirely too decadent.
Her knee had been bandaged with professional care by Roman’s private physician while she had drifted into an exhausted sleep.
A fresh designer wardrobe hung in the walk-in closet, tailored precisely to her measurements, complete with soft knit sweaters and wool trousers.
She dressed quickly, choosing a cream turtleneck and dark trousers, determined to maintain every shred of professional composure she possessed.
When she walked out into the dining hall, Roman was already seated at the head of a twenty-foot marble table, reading financial printouts.
He had traded his soaked overcoat for a crisp charcoal three-piece suit, his dark hair neatly brushed back from his rugged, handsome forehead.
"Good morning, Nora," he said, setting aside a silver pen without looking up from his ledger.
"Sleep well?"
"I dreamed about armed mercenaries ransacking my shoe collection," Nora said dryly, pulling out a chair opposite him.
"So, roughly average for a Wednesday."
A ghost of amusement tugged at Roman’s lips as he motioned to a silver cloche covering a plate of fresh eggs, smoked salmon, and toast.
"Your appetite seems unimpaired by near-death experiences."
"Stress makes me hungry," Nora replied, buttering a piece of sourdough with aggressive precision.
"Now, tell me what happens next, Roman."
"I cannot stay locked in a gilded cage while my apartment is treated like a crime scene."
Roman folded his hands over the polished marble table, his gaze locking onto hers with intense, undivided scrutiny.
"Greg went to the police precinct two hours ago," Roman said, his voice dropping into a businesslike cadence.
"He filed a missing person report, claiming you vanished into the restaurant alleyway after an argument."
Nora paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, her eyes narrowing.
"He is building an alibi."
"Precisely," Roman agreed, nodding slowly.
"He wants the authorities looking for you so that Rossi’s enforcers can intercept you the moment you contact your bank or your family."
"Then let me go to the FBI," Nora urged, leaning forward across the table.
"I can tell them everything."
"The FBI field office in this district has three agents on Rossi’s monthly retainer," Roman countered with chilling calmness.
"You would not make it through the security metal detector before an untraceable syringe found your carotid artery."
Nora felt a chill run down her spine, the toast suddenly turning to dust in her mouth.
"So what do you propose?" she asked, crossing her arms defensively.
"I hide here forever while you fight a mob war?"
"No," Roman said, standing up and sliding a thick manila dossier across the table toward her plate.
"I need your mind, Nora."
She opened the folder, revealing dozens of intricate corporate flowcharts, shipping schedules, and encrypted container registry codes.
"What is this?" she asked, skimming the dense logistical data with practiced professional speed.
"Someone inside my executive tier has been diverting shipping containers through the Port of Newark for six months," Roman explained.
"Rossi is using my own legitimate freight lanes to smuggle unlicensed weapons and narcotics into the tri-state area."
Nora’s analytical instincts kicked in, momentarily overriding her fear as she flipped through the contradictory balance sheets.
"These shipping manifests don't align with the fuel consumption reports," she pointed out, her finger tracing a discrepancy on page twelve.
"Look here; this cargo freighter claims to have docked in Rotterdam, but the fuel burn corresponds to a holding pattern off the Jersey shoreline."
Roman stared at her, an expression of genuine respect flickering in his dark eyes.
"My internal auditors spent three weeks looking at those documents and failed to spot that discrepancy."
"Your auditors are looking for missing cash," Nora said, meeting his intense gaze without flinching.
"I look for logistical anomalies."
Roman leaned across the table, his face inches from hers, the intoxicating scent of cedarwood and masculine power washing over her senses.
"Help me find the mole in my shipping network, Nora," he whispered, his tone fierce and mesmerizing.
"And I will ensure that Greg, Rossi, and every man who threatened your life spends the rest of their days rotting in concrete."
Nora looked down at the documents, then back at the most dangerous man in the city.
"If I do this, I am not your pet, Roman," she stated firmly.
"I am your strategic consultant."
May you like
Roman’s eyes flared with a dark, appreciative fire.
"Deal, Miss Vance."
