Chapter 2 - THE PAPERS I WAS SUPPOSED TO SIGN
At seven the next morning, I sat across from Camille and ate scrambled eggs.
That was the hardest thing I had done in fifteen years.
Not ordering a killing.
Not surviving a federal indictment.
Not burying Isabella.
Sitting at my own breakfast table while the woman who had struck my son spread strawberry jam over toast and smiled at me.
“You came in late,” she said.
“Meeting.”
“Messy?”
Her eyes drifted toward the dried blood on the cuff I had not bothered changing before confronting Naomi.
“Handled.”
She smiled.
I had once liked the way Camille never asked questions.
Now I understood.
She did not need to.
Arthur probably told her everything.
Jack sat at the far end of the table.
He would not look at me.
Rosie sat beside Naomi.
My daughter’s shoulders tensed every time Camille moved.
I noticed because Naomi had forced me to notice.
That realization hurt more than anything.
How long had Rosie been doing that?
How many mornings had I walked past it?
Camille touched my wrist.
“I was thinking about Saturday.”
“The gala?”
“Our engagement announcement.”
“We already announced it.”
“Formally.”
She smiled.
“My father wants the press there.”
Of course he did.
Patrick Sloane loved cameras.
I looked toward Jack.
He was staring at his cereal.
“Jack.”
His spoon stopped.
“Yes, sir?”
Sir.
My son had never called me sir.
Camille smiled.
“He’s learning manners.”
Something savage rose inside me.
I pressed it down.
“What are you drawing lately?”
Jack looked confused.
“What?”
“You used to draw trucks.”
Camille answered for him.
“He has less time for childish things.”
I looked at her.
“Let him answer.”
The room changed.
Only slightly.
Camille recovered.
Jack whispered:
“I don’t draw anymore.”
“Why?”
He looked at Camille.
Then me.
“I’m busy.”
Naomi stood behind Rosie.
Her eyes met mine.
Do not react.
I forced myself to finish breakfast.
At nine, I took Jack and Rosie to school myself.
Camille objected.
“I thought Victor was driving them.”
“I’m going downtown.”
“You never drive them.”
“I do today.”
Jack watched me carefully.
Rosie climbed into the SUV.
When we were three blocks away, I locked the doors.
Then pulled over.
Both children went stiff.
That broke something in me.
I turned around.
“You’re not in trouble.”
Jack looked suspicious.
Rosie hugged her backpack.
“Naomi told me.”
Jack’s face drained.
“Told you what?”
“Enough.”
Rosie began crying instantly.
“No, Daddy. Please.”
I unbuckled.
Moved into the back seat.
Rosie backed away from me.
My own daughter backed away.
I stopped.
“Rosie.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making things hard.”
I closed my eyes.
Five years old.
She had been taught to apologize for existing.
“You do not make my life hard.”
She watched me.
“Camille said—”
“I don’t care what Camille said.”
Jack flinched.
Too sharp.
I softened my voice.
“Listen to me.”
I looked at both of them.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
“That’s what Mom used to say.”
I nearly broke.
“Yes.”
He looked out the window.
“You’re going to believe Naomi?”
“I believe you.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I should have.”
Silence.
“I should have asked a long time ago.”
Jack looked at me.
His eyes were angry.
He had a right to be.
“You’re never home.”
“I know.”
“You always say work.”
“I know.”
“Camille said you don’t want us around when we’re difficult.”
“I want you around when you’re difficult.”
He looked confused.
I almost smiled.
“You’re children. Difficult is part of the job.”
Rosie whispered:
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Jack studied me.
Then:
“She records us.”
I stopped.
“Camille?”
He nodded.
“What does she make you say?”
He looked afraid.
“Jack.”
“She says it’s for therapy.”
“What do you say?”
His voice became quiet.
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Dad scares me.”
My blood chilled.
He continued.
“I don’t feel safe when Dad gets angry.”
Another.
“I want to live somewhere calmer.”
Rosie whispered:
“She makes me say Daddy breaks things.”
I gripped the seat.
“Have I ever broken anything in front of you?”
Jack stared at me.
“The dining-room chair.”
I remembered.
Six months after Isabella died.
A phone call.
Bad news.
I kicked a chair into a wall.
I had forgotten.
Jack had not.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
Camille did not invent every piece of evidence.
That was the genius of it.
She took real flaws.
My anger.
My absence.
My reputation.
Then built a lie around them.
I drove the children to a private apartment nobody outside my core security team knew existed.
Naomi met us there later.
So did Dr. Lena Walsh, a child psychologist who had treated families connected to federal witness-protection cases.
I hated needing a stranger to explain my own children to me.
I hated more that she was necessary.
After ninety minutes, she came into the kitchen.
“This is coercive control.”
I stared at her.
“They’re children.”
“Children are extremely vulnerable to it.”
“Can it be fixed?”
Wrong question.
Dr. Walsh looked at me.
“They aren’t broken.”
I corrected myself.
“Can they recover?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“No timetable.”
I hated that answer.
I was a man who solved problems by deadlines.
Healing did not care.
“What do I do?”
“Believe them.”
“I do.”
“Consistently.”
She continued.
“Do not make them responsible for your reaction.”
I thought of Camille.
“What does that mean?”
“If Jack tells you something happened, he cannot then have to manage your rage.”
That hit hard.
“Your children have spent weeks learning that adult emotions are dangerous.”
I looked toward the closed bedroom door.
“So I can’t confront her.”
“Not in front of them.”
Naomi entered carrying a laptop.
“We have a larger problem.”
She showed me the trust.
Not the amendment.
The original.
Created four years earlier when Isabella was alive.
Romano Continental Holdings.
Voting shares divided.
Forty-two percent mine.
Twenty-nine percent reserved for Jack.
Twenty-nine percent reserved for Rosie.
I frowned.
“I know this.”
“No.”
Naomi pointed at a clause.
“Read.”
I did.
If I died before either child reached twenty-five, the shares remained in trust.
An appointed guardian did not own them.
But could nominate one of three proxy trustees to exercise voting authority until the children reached specified ages.
I looked at Naomi.
“Who are the three?”
She showed me.
Arthur Velez.
Retired Judge Samuel Benton.
A Chicago trust company.
My stomach turned.
“If Camille becomes guardian…”
“She nominates Arthur.”
“And together…”
“They control fifty-eight percent.”
The room went silent.
My company.
My voting power.
My children’s inheritance.
Everything.
I looked at Naomi.
“Isabella approved Arthur?”
“She trusted him then.”
“So did I.”
Naomi’s eyes hardened.
“That’s why this works.”
At one in the afternoon, Arthur called.
“Roman.”
“Arthur.”
“You sound tired.”
“Late night.”
“I’ve got papers for you at three.”
“What papers?”
He laughed.
“Since when do you ask?”
I smiled without humor.
“Since today.”
A pause.
“Estate updates.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Boilerplate.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up.
Naomi looked at me.
“What are you going to do?”
“Exactly what they expect.”
At 3:07, I sat inside Arthur Velez’s office.
He gave me eleven documents.
The seventh was the guardianship amendment.
Camille Sloane.
Primary guardian.
Arthur Velez.
Preferred trust proxy.
I flipped the page.
Arthur smiled.
“You want me to explain it?”
“No.”
I picked up my pen.
His shoulders relaxed.
I signed.
At least, that was what Arthur believed.
The signature looked like mine.
It wasn’t.
I had learned something useful from criminals years earlier.
May you like
Never let your enemy know when you finally understand the game.
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