Chapter 3 - The Audit of Parasites
By the afternoon of January 2nd, Maya was resting comfortably under private nursing care in a luxury recovery suite, and Liam was gaining back his lost ounces under expert pediatric supervision. I, however, was sitting behind the mahogany desk of my downtown Manhattan office, flanked by two corporate attorneys and a forensic accountant named Marcus Vance.
Marcus was a bulldog of a man with rimless glasses and a laptop screen flashing with colorful spreadsheets that looked like a financial crime scene—because that was exactly what it was.
“Mr. Romano, you asked us to look into the subsidiary accounts and the authorized user spending over the last thirty-six months,” Marcus said, tapping his keyboard. “Frankly, I’m amazed your corporate cash flow didn't collapse six months ago.”
My lead attorney, Victoria Sterling, adjusted her glasses and slid a thick dossier across the desk. “David, your family didn't just live off your generosity. They systematically looted your personal and corporate holdings.”
“Break it down for me,” I said coldly, staring out the glass window at the winter traffic rushing down Broadway.
“Let’s start with your mother,” Marcus began, pulling up a series of bank statements. “Over the last three years, Eleanor Romano has charged over four hundred thousand dollars in luxury travel, cosmetic procedures, and high-end boutique shopping to your company cards under the guise of ‘client relations.’ Furthermore, she sold the Brooklyn brownstone your father left you—which was legally placed in a trust for you—by forging your signature on a quitclaim deed six months ago. She pocketed 1.2 million dollars cash and put it into a private account in the Bahamas.”
My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white. My father’s house—the only tangible memory I had left of him—had been stolen out from under me by the woman who gave me life.
“What about Chloe and Mark?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
“Oh, your sister and brother-in-law are even more brazen,” Marcus said, flipping to another tab. “Mark hasn’t held a legitimate job in four years. You’ve been paying his salary through a ghost position at your German machinery firm as a ‘consulting fee.’ Meanwhile, they used your credit line to put down a 300,000-dollar down payment on a luxury condo in Tribeca—registered entirely in Mark and Chloe’s names.”
Victoria leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. “David, this isn't just family overreach. This is grand larceny, forgery, and systematic wire fraud. Because these accounts were tied to your corporate LLC, it crosses state and federal lines. We can freeze every single asset they own by tomorrow morning.”
“Do it,” I commanded, the word slicing through the air like a razor blade. “Freeze their bank accounts. Evict them from the Tribeca condo. Cancel the titles on their luxury cars. I want them stripped of every single cent, every vehicle, and every illusion of status I provided them.”
“There’s one more thing,” Marcus added hesitatingly.
“Out with it.”
“Last night, right after you cut off their cards, your mother and sister didn't panic about food or shelter. They panicked about a specific wire transfer scheduled for this morning. A deposit of fifty thousand dollars to a private offshore trust fund managed by a man named Ethan Vance—no relation to me, thankfully.”
I froze. Ethan. The man Eleanor’s note had mentioned—the one they were partying with in South Beach.
“Who is Ethan Vance?” I demanded.
“Ethan Vance is a disgraced real estate developer with multiple federal indictments for mortgage fraud,” Victoria answered grimly. “And according to public property records, your mother and sister entered into a secret business partnership with him three months ago, investing over two million dollars of your capital into a shady commercial real estate venture in Miami without your knowledge.”
They hadn't just leeched off me; they had partnered with a criminal to gamble away the empire I had spent fifteen years building through brutal, 80-hour workweeks.
“Get a federal prosecutor on the phone,” I told Victoria, standing up from my desk. “Tell them David Romano wants to turn over a comprehensive package of financial crimes. And tell them to issue immediate arrest warrants for conspiracy and fraud.”
As my legal team scrambled into action, my phone rang. It was an unknown Miami number.
I swiped to answer and put it on speaker.
“David! You psychotic bastard, pick up the phone!” Chloe’s hysterical, screaming voice blasted through the receiver. “Do you have any idea what’s happening down here? Our cards are declined, our condo locks have been electronically changed by some property management company, and the police just towed Mark’s Mercedes from the hotel valet! Mom is having chest pains, and we’re stuck in the lobby of a five-star resort with no money to pay our bill!”
I listened to her meltdown with a chilling sense of absolute detachment.
“You’re staying in a five-star resort, Chloe?” I asked smoothly. “That sounds expensive. Better pull yourself up by your bootstraps and pay your own bill. After all, a woman recovering from luxury isn't supposed to play the victim.”
“David, you can’t do this to us! We’re your family!” she wailed.
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“Family doesn't steal a dying man’s house,” I whispered fiercely. “Family doesn't starve a postpartum mother and a newborn baby on New Year’s Eve. Enjoy South Beach, Chloe. Because when the federal marshals arrive to question you about Ethan Vance, you’re going to need a lot more than a canceled credit card.”
I hung up, blocked the number, and watched the snow begin to fall over Manhattan. The parasites were finally starving. And I was ready to clean house.
