Chapter 2 - The Files in the VaultThe lockdown lasted through the night. While federal agents swarmed public record offices downtown, the 42nd floor of DeLuca Tower became a fortress. Clara didn't leave. Despite her resignation letter sitting on Roman’s desk, her instincts as his chief operations officer overrode her personal turmoil. When a crisis hit, Clara didn't run—she fought.
At 3:00 AM, the office was silent except for the low hum of the servers and the relentless drumming of rain against the glass. Clara sat at her desk, her laptop screen illuminating her face as she cross-referenced the seized asset warrants with the internal accounting ledgers.
The door to Roman’s private office opened. He emerged in his shirtsleeves, his tie gone, the top two buttons undone. He carried two cups of black coffee, setting one down beside her keyboard without a word.
"You should have gone home, Clara," he said, leaning his hip against the edge of her desk.
"And let your entire compliance team go to federal prison because someone leaked forged wire transfers? I don't think so," she replied, not looking up from her screen. She scrolled down to a specific sub-folder labeled Project Janus. "Roman... look at this timestamp. These warrants aren't based on recent activity. Someone pulled files from the legacy archives—files that haven't been touched since your father ran the Chicago ports."
Roman leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. The familiar, intoxicating scent of cedarwood, expensive bourbon, and rain washed over her. He placed a hand flat on the desk beside her mouse, effectively trapping her between his arm and the chair.
"Those files were sealed ten years ago," Roman muttered, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "Only two people had the master encryption key to the legacy vault: my father, and the family’s chief legal counsel, Arthur Vance."
"Arthur Vance died five years ago," Clara pointed out, turning her head to look at him. Their faces were inches apart. She could see the fine lines of exhaustion carved around his eyes, and the fierce, unyielding intensity that drove him.
"Or so we were led to believe," Roman said darkly. His dark eyes dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before rising back to her eyes. "Clara... there's something I never told you about why I hired you three years ago."
Clara’s breath hitched. "What are you talking about? You hired me because I graduated top of my class in corporate finance from Northwestern."
"I hired you because your grandfather was Thomas Hayes," Roman said quietly.
May you like
Clara froze. Her grandfather had been the head accountant for the Chicago dockworkers' union back in the seventies—the very man who had discovered the original ledger detailing how the DeLuca family and the city's political machine laundered real estate capital. Grandfather Hayes had vanished under mysterious circumstances when Clara was six years old, leaving her family with nothing but debt and whispered rumors.
"My grandfather?" Clara whispered, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. "What does my grandfather have to do with you?"
