Chapter 4 - THE MAN IN MY OWN HOUSE
Noah’s operation lasted six hours.
Six hours stripped every title from me.
No boss.
No Roman.
No territory.
Just a father staring at a set of double doors.
Norah sat beside me.
Not touching.
Sofia sat across.
Carlo brought coffee nobody drank.
At hour four, my phone buzzed.
Forty-three missed messages.
One name repeated.
VINCENT.
Vincent DeLuca.
My underboss in Chicago.
I called him.
“What?”
His voice was urgent.
“The Denver crew heard we stood down.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“No one moves.”
“They're hitting warehouses.”
“Let them.”
Silence.
“Roman, what the hell is happening?”
“My son is in surgery.”
Another silence.
“You have a son?”
“Yes.”
Then Vincent said something that would change everything.
“So Norah finally surfaced.”
I stood.
“What?”
Across the waiting room, Carlo looked up.
Sofia froze.
Vincent realized too late.
I lowered my voice.
“How do you know Norah had my son?”
“I meant—”
“You said finally.”
“Roman.”
My entire body became cold.
“Where are you?”
“Chicago.”
“Don't move.”
I disconnected.
Carlo stood.
“What happened?”
“Vincent knew.”
Norah’s face went pale.
“Knew what?”
“That I had a son.”
Sofia looked toward Carlo.
He shook his head.
“I never told him.”
Neither had Norah.
Someone had known.
Someone inside my organization knew where she was.
Maybe not exactly.
Enough.
I called security.
Not my old men.
A legitimate private firm Carlo had quietly used to protect Norah during medical visits.
We began reconstructing.
Norah’s apartment in Minneapolis had been broken into six months earlier.
Nothing obviously stolen.
She thought random burglary.
Then one of Noah’s medical records had been accessed improperly from a clinic system.
The investigation went nowhere.
Now we knew what to ask.
Who benefited from knowing I had heirs?
Vincent.
My father had structured parts of the organization around succession.
If I died without a recognized child, control shifted through senior captains.
Vincent stood to inherit enormous influence.
If I suddenly had a son?
Everything changed.
But why help Norah stay hidden?
Because as long as I did not know, nothing changed.
Then why track her?
To ensure she remained hidden.
Or dead.
My stomach turned.
“Was Noah’s condition known?”
Norah shook her head.
“Only hospitals.”
“Did anybody threaten you?”
“No.”
Sofia looked troubled.
“There was one thing.”
“What?”
A month before the twins were born, someone left an envelope beneath her apartment door.
Inside:
$20,000 cash.
No note.
Norah thought Carlo sent it.
Carlo had not.
Someone wanted her financially comfortable enough not to return.
Vincent.
Maybe.
Then Dr. Vasquez emerged.
Every thought disappeared.
Norah stood so quickly her chair fell.
“He’s okay.”
I stopped breathing.
“The repair went well.”
Norah burst into tears.
I covered my face.
Sofia grabbed my shoulder.
I did not care that she touched me.
Our son survived.
My son.
Noah.
Alive.
For two days, I barely touched my phone.
Vincent kept calling.
I ignored him.
That terrified him more than shouting would have.
On the third day, Carlo entered Noah’s room.
“We have proof.”
Norah was feeding Lila.
I stepped into the hallway.
“What?”
Vincent had paid a private investigator eight months earlier to monitor a woman matching Norah’s description in Minnesota.
He had access to birth records through a corrupt intermediary.
He knew about twins.
He also knew Noah’s sex.
“He wanted the boy gone?”
“We don't know.”
“Find out.”
Carlo hesitated.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“Old you would order something.”
“Yes.”
“New you?”
I hated the question.
Because I knew what he wanted.
Evidence.
Authorities.
Not blood.
Vincent knew too much about crimes.
So did I.
Going legitimate was not as simple as filing a form.
But there were levels.
Financial crimes.
Extortion.
Conspiracy.
Things law enforcement already suspected.
Carlo had records.
So did Sofia.
My father’s old documents.
I could destroy Vincent legally.
Maybe myself too.
That was the cost hiding beneath every fantasy about leaving “the life.”
Norah once asked me to walk away.
I told her nobody walks away clean.
True.
But people can walk away dirty.
They just have to accept consequences.
I looked through the glass at Noah sleeping.
“Call my attorney.”
“Which one?”
“Not family counsel.”
Carlo understood.
“Federal?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You sure?”
“No.”
I looked at my son.
May you like
“Do it anyway.”
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