Chapter 3 - MY SON’S SECOND VOICE
For four days, I lived two lives.
In one, I was still Roman Romano.
Engaged to Camille.
Meeting Patrick Sloane about the wedding.
Shaking hands.
Discussing freight agreements.
Allowing Arthur to believe I had signed away the future of my children.
In the other, I was a father learning how badly I had failed.
Jack would not sleep unless his bedroom door stayed open.
Rosie asked permission before touching food in her own kitchen.
The first time she spilled milk at the safe apartment, she dropped to the floor and covered her head.
I stood frozen.
Naomi reached her first.
“You’re okay.”
Rosie sobbed.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know.”
Nobody yelled.
Nobody punished her.
Five minutes later she looked around, confused.
That confusion destroyed me.
I went into the bathroom and threw up.
Violence had always been easier when it happened between adults.
This was different.
This was architecture.
Camille had built fear inside my children one sentence at a time.
And I had provided the empty rooms.
Dr. Walsh made Jack keep a notebook.
He hated it.
“This is stupid.”
She said:
“Good. Write that.”
He did.
Three pages.
Apparently my son had inherited my temperament.
On the fifth day, Jack asked to speak to me alone.
We sat in the kitchen.
“What?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Camille has another phone.”
I leaned forward.
“Where?”
“Her closet.”
“What kind?”
“Small black one.”
“Have you seen her use it?”
“Yes.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does she say?”
Jack looked embarrassed.
“She talks different.”
“How?”
“Like you.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“She says things like routes and windows and clean.”
I understood.
Operational language.
“What else?”
“She said Mr. Arthur’s name.”
“When?”
“The night she made Rosie play piano.”
I felt cold.
“What did she say?”
Jack closed his eyes, trying to remember.
“Arthur says Friday is safer.”
“What’s Friday?”
“The gala.”
My engagement gala.
Six hundred guests.
Press.
Politicians.
Security stretched across three venues.
I called Nico Bell, my security chief.
Unlike Arthur, Nico had never advised me about money.
He only cared whether people entered rooms alive and left the same way.
I told him enough.
Not everything.
His reaction was simple.
“I told you I didn’t like Sloane.”
“You tell me you don’t like everyone.”
“Yes.”
“Useful habit.”
We searched Camille’s closet after she left for a charity lunch.
The black phone was hidden inside the lining of a garment bag.
Naomi had been right about one thing repeatedly.
Evidence first.
I did not touch the device directly.
Nico cloned it.
Messages.
Encrypted app.
Patrick Sloane.
Arthur.
A contact labeled BISHOP.
One message:
FRIDAY EXIT ROUTE CONFIRMED.
Another:
CHILDREN NOT PRESENT. BETTER.
My pulse changed.
Patrick replied:
THEY MUST BE SECURE BEFORE IMPACT.
Impact.
Nico looked at me.
“That isn’t legal language.”
“No.”
We kept reading.
BISHOP: Accident or message?
PATRICK: Message. Romano has enemies. Make it look like one finally reached him.
I stared at the screen.
Camille was planning my death.
Not eventually.
Friday.
After the gala.
Nico swore softly.
Naomi stood behind us.
Arthur added:
Guardianship effective upon marriage. Proxy paperwork already signed.
Camille replied:
Then Friday ends everything.
I almost admired the precision.
Marry me.
Become guardian.
Kill me.
Use Arthur to control the children’s voting shares.
Merge Romano Continental with Sloane freight operations.
Patrick gets the ports.
Camille gets the children.
Arthur gets paid.
And everyone tells the public Roman Romano finally died the way men like him always do.
Violently.
I looked at Nico.
“Who is Bishop?”
“Finding out.”
Naomi said:
“There’s still something wrong.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Why train Jack and Rosie to fear you if they expected you dead immediately?”
She was right.
They already had guardianship documents.
Why create abuse evidence?
Insurance.
If I discovered the plot before Friday, they needed another route.
Have me arrested.
Declared dangerous.
Separated from the children.
Camille becomes sympathetic fiancée.
Arthur produces recordings.
I looked at Jack’s notebook on the table.
“My son’s voice.”
Naomi frowned.
“What?”
“They’re building a version of him.”
That night Jack confirmed it.
Camille had made him record dozens of sentences.
Some were true.
Some twisted.
Some completely invented.
“Dad scares me.”
True sometimes.
“Dad hits people when he’s mad.”
Jack had seen me shove a man once.
“Dad said he wishes we would disappear.”
Never happened.
“Dad keeps guns near Rosie.”
False.
“Dad threatened Camille.”
Not yet.
But easy to manufacture later.
“They made you say that?”
Jack nodded.
“What if I didn’t?”
“She would make Rosie do punishments.”
I stopped breathing.
“She used Rosie against you?”
“Yes.”
My eight-year-old son had been protecting his little sister.
While I attended meetings.
While I negotiated peace.
While I called myself powerful.
I put my head in my hands.
Jack stared.
“Are you mad?”
“Yes.”
His shoulders tightened.
“Not at you.”
He did not relax.
Dr. Walsh’s words returned.
Do not make them responsible for your reaction.
I lowered my voice.
“I’m proud of you for telling me.”
He looked confused.
“I lied in the recordings.”
“You were forced.”
“But I said them.”
“I don’t care.”
“What if people hear them?”
“I’ll know the truth.”
His eyes filled.
“That’s enough?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me.
Then whispered:
“Mom would believe me.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Naomi believes me.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
I could barely speak.
“Always.”
He cried then.
Not loudly.
Just leaned forward until his forehead touched my chest.
I put my arms around him.
It was the first time in months he had come to me voluntarily.
I understood then that destroying Patrick Sloane was no longer the point.
Winning the company was not the point.
Even Camille’s punishment was not the point.
Jack and Rosie needed a father more than Romano Continental needed a boss.
May you like
And I had no idea yet how to become one.
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