I Stood By The Ballroom Door Holding A Crying Child When Roman D’Angelo Slapped His Mother And Demanded To Know Where The Money Went...

The rain had turned into a relentless, icy downpour by the time Roman’s car slipped off the highway and pulled into the deserted parking lot of the South Cove Marina. Rows of empty wooden docks stretched out into the black, churning waters of the Hudson, their pilings groaning under the pull of the tide. The only illumination came from flickering sodium-vapor streetlamps that cast a sickly yellow glow over the wet asphalt and battered storage sheds.

Roman cut the engine and killed the headlights. The interior of the car fell silent except for the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers and the steady drum of rain against the roof. He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a small, heavy black-metal data reader, and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket before checking the magazine of a sidearm he had retrieved from his private wall safe before we left. I swallowed hard, watching him, realizing for the first time the full, terrifying extent of the underworld Roman had been forced to navigate just to survive his mother’s household.

“Stay in the car,” Roman whispered, his gaze locked on a rusted corrugated-metal warehouse fifty yards down the pier. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, use the satellite phone in the console to call Marcus directly. Don’t get out for any reason.”

“No,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt before he could lock me in. I grabbed my olive-green jacket tighter around my throat, pushing the door open against the rising wind. “We’ve come too far for me to sit in a car while you walk into the dark alone, Roman. I’m not staying behind.”

He stared at me through the dim light, a flicker of fierce protest crossing his features before resigning himself to the reality of my stubbornness. With a sharp nod, he pushed his door open, stepping out into the freezing rain. I followed immediately, the wind instantly tearing at my hair and soaking through my clothes as we moved in tandem across the wet gravel toward the warehouse.

The side door of the storage shed hung slightly ajar, spilling a thin sliver of fluorescent light onto the wooden dock. We crept forward, keeping our footing silent against the slick boards. Inside, the sound of muffled voices echoed off concrete floors and stacked shipping crates.

“...she’s finished, Sarah,” a harsh, desperate voice snapped. It was Arthur Vance. We peered around the edge of a rusted shipping container. Arthur stood near a folding metal table, frantically stuffing files into a leather briefcase while a pale, trembling young woman in a yellow raincoat hovered near the exit, clutching a small flash drive in her hand. “The federal marshals have the penthouse. If we don’t get these drives to the European server by morning, we’re going down for fifty counts of wire fraud that she orchestrated!”

“I don’t care about her anymore, Mr. Vance,” Sarah stammered, tears mixing with the rain dripping from her hair. “You said this would be a simple paper-shuffling job. You didn't say anything about federal warrants and prison time!”

“Give me the drive, Sarah,” a deep, cold voice cut through the damp air like a razor.

Arthur spun around so fast he knocked a stack of ledgers off the table. Sarah gasped, dropping her keys onto the concrete with a sharp clatter. Roman stepped out from the shadows of the shipping container, his tall frame blocking the doorway, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Arthur with terrifying, unblinking intensity. I stepped out right beside him, my presence anchoring his flank, ensuring there was no escape route left open.

“Roman,” Arthur breathed, his face draining of all color as he instinctively backed away until his spine hit a stack of steel drums. “I... I was just securing the corporate records for the board. You know how your mother is—she loses control, and someone has to keep the ship afloat.”

“The ship sank, Arthur,” Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he took a slow, measured step forward. He didn't raise his voice, didn't make a sudden move, but the sheer weight of his presence made the older man shrink back against the metal drums. “And you’re holding the last bucket of water. Now, hand over the drive, or I let the federal marshals handle you the exact same way they’re handling her.”

Arthur looked from Roman’s cold, unyielding gaze to the federal badge clipped to Roman’s belt, then down at Sarah, who had already dropped her flash drive onto the table and raised her hands in surrender. With a trembling sigh, Arthur reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small black micro-drive, and placed it slowly on the center of the metal table.