Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO STOLE MORE THAN MONEY
The next morning, I woke to twenty-three missed calls.
Six were from the Obsidian Club.
Four were from my landlord.
Thirteen were from Preston Hayes.
The last message made my blood run cold.
You have no idea what you've done, Sloan. Stay away from Roman Costa.
I stared at the screen.
For three years, Preston had treated me like I was invisible unless humiliating me entertained him.
Now he was afraid.
And somehow, that frightened me more than his cruelty ever had.
I checked the time.
8:17 a.m.
My father's care facility had already left a reminder about his medication payment.
I had forty-two dollars in my checking account.
Roman Costa's business card lay on my kitchen counter.
I picked it up.
Then I called.
He answered on the first ring.
"Sloan."
I frowned.
"How did you know it was me?"
"You called the number I gave you."
"That's not an answer."
I heard something that sounded suspiciously like a smile.
"Are you always this argumentative?"
"Only when strangers announce we're married."
A pause.
"Fair."
I looked toward the stack of overdue bills beside my refrigerator.
"You said you could help my father."
"I said I could help recover what was stolen."
"Is there a difference?"
"Sometimes."
He gave me an address in downtown Chicago.
An hour later, I stood outside a thirty-story building owned by Costa Holdings.
The lobby was filled with polished marble, dark wood, and security guards who looked like they had never laughed in their lives.
A receptionist escorted me upstairs.
Roman waited beside a wall of windows overlooking the city.
He wore a charcoal suit without a tie.
No bodyguards stood beside him.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"Do you have the kind that doesn't cost fourteen dollars?"
His mouth shifted.
"Several varieties."
I sat opposite him.
"Let's skip the part where you pretend this is a normal business meeting."
Roman took his seat.
"Your father founded Bennett & Sons twenty-eight years ago."
"Yes."
"He specialized in historic restoration and commercial construction."
I nodded.
"Then Preston forged documents, used our company as collateral for loans we never authorized, and forced Dad into bankruptcy."
Roman opened a folder.
"That's what the official records suggest."
"Suggest?"
He slid a bank statement toward me.
I recognized the company name immediately.
Bennett & Sons.
But the account number was unfamiliar.
"What's this?"
"A bank account opened six months before your father's stroke."
I leaned closer.
There were several deposits.
$450,000.
$900,000.
$1.2 million.
Then withdrawals.
Large ones.
All connected to companies I didn't recognize.
"Who opened this?"
"Someone using your father's identity."
I felt sick.
"And Preston?"
Roman turned another page.
One transfer led directly to Hayes Development Group.
Preston's company.
Another led to an investment firm called Blackthorne Capital.
"Who owns Blackthorne?" I asked.
Roman's expression hardened.
"My former business partner."
My heart pounded.
"Who?"
"Vincent Caruso."
I recognized the name.
A powerful investor rumored to finance major construction projects across Chicago.
Roman leaned forward.
"Vincent helped Preston obtain the documents needed to take control of your father's company."
"Then why haven't you stopped him?"
"Because I need evidence strong enough to survive in court."
I stared at the statements.
For years, I'd believed my father had simply been outmaneuvered by Preston's expensive attorneys.
Now I was looking at proof that someone had constructed an elaborate fraud.
Roman opened a final folder.
"This is why I asked you here."
Inside was a copy of my father's original architectural development proposal.
I recognized the drawings.
I'd helped him prepare them while studying architecture.
The Riverside project.
My father's dream.
But someone had altered the ownership information.
The design rights were assigned to Blackthorne Capital.
I felt my stomach drop.
"Those drawings are ours."
"I know."
"They belong to my father."
Roman nodded.
"That's exactly what I intend to prove."
Then he showed me the signature page.
My name appeared beneath an authorization transferring the design rights.
Sloan Bennett.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
May you like
And the date printed beneath it was impossible.
Because on that date, I had been sitting beside my father in intensive care.
