Chapter 8 - THE HOUSEHOLD ROMAN NEVER KNEW
The external review of Roman’s estate took six weeks.
He hated it.
I enjoyed hearing that.
Twenty-three household employees interviewed.
Nine security employees.
Kitchen staff.
Drivers.
Gardeners.
Assistants.
Findings:
Overtime inconsistently recorded.
Several staff afraid to take sick days.
Security personnel collecting personal information without clear need.
Employees believing termination could result from displeasing Roman personally even when Roman had never said so.
That mattered.
Intent does not erase atmosphere.
Roman called an all-staff meeting.
I did not attend.
I was still on medical leave.
Dante later told me.
Roman stood in the main hall.
No speechwriter.
“I was told people in this house were afraid to bring me problems.”
Silence.
“That means I have been paying for information and receiving obedience.”
He paused.
“They are not the same thing.”
New rules.
Protected sick leave.
Independent HR.
Overtime tracking.
No personal background investigations without documented security cause.
No manager allowed to imply Roman wanted something unless the instruction existed.
Staff could refuse unsafe work.
Boring.
Important.
Roman also began restructuring Calder Holdings.
Marcus’s fraud exposed other off-book practices Roman could no longer pretend were harmless.
He sold two high-risk businesses.
Closed a debt-collection operation built on intimidation.
Installed an independent audit committee.
His older associates called him soft.
Roman told one:
“Try surviving an indictment instead.”
Useful.
Meanwhile I returned to work.
Not at his house.
I resigned.
Roman read the letter inside my apartment.
He had come for dinner.
Caleb had invited him without permission.
Apparently my home had lost governance.
“You're leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I've spent five years cooking for someone else.”
He looked wounded.
“My food was bad?”
I laughed.
“That's your concern?”
“No.”
Then:
“What will you do?”
“Catering.”
Small.
Community kitchen rental.
Lunch contracts.
Weekend events.
Maybe eventually a storefront.
Roman immediately said:
“I can—”
I raised one finger.
He stopped.
Progress.
“What are you allowed to say?” I asked.
He sighed.
“Congratulations.”
“Excellent.”
Then:
“If you ever want an investor—”
“No.”
“Right.”
Caleb entered.
“Can I invest?”
We both stared.
“With what?”
He brought the metal box.
Roman actually laughed.
May you like
I threw a dish towel at him.
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