Chapter 5 - The Ledger of Lies
By 4:30 a.m., Arthur Pendelton, the seventy-two-year-old secretary, was brought into the library by two of Marco’s men.
The old man was trembling, wearing a hastily buttoned raincoat over his pajamas, his thin white hair sticking up in tufts. He looked at the floor, refusing to meet Roman’s eyes as he was forced down into the leather chair opposite the desk.
On the desk lay twenty three-ring binders—the full paper trail of the Valenti family trust for the past three years.
Julian Valenti stood near the fireplace, sipping scotch from a crystal tumbler, his expression one of calm, professional concern.
“Arthur,” Roman said, leaning back in his chair, playing with a heavy gold fountain pen. “Where is Claire’s townhouse in Kensington?”
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat making a dry click. “Signor Valenti... I... I don't handle the real estate contracts directly. Julian’s department—”
“Don't look at Julian,” Roman snapped, and the pen in his hand snapped in half with a loud crack, black ink dripping down his knuckles onto the blotter. “Look at me.”
Arthur flinched violently.
“Where is the money, Arthur?” Roman asked softly. “Six hundred thousand dollars over six months. Transferred from our commercial account at Fifth Third Bank into an offshore entity called Apex Logistics in the Cayman Islands. Whose name is on the Apex signature card?”
Arthur began to weep silently, his old shoulders shaking beneath his raincoat. “They told me she was going back to her family in Ohio,” he blubbered. “They said she didn't want the Valenti name, that she took a settlement under the table... Howard told me if I processed the wire sheets, my grandson’s tuition at Northwestern would be covered...”
“Howard Vance,” Roman repeated.
“Yes,” Arthur sobbed. “And... and Julian.”
The library went completely silent.
The sound of the rain outside seemed to amplify, rattling the thick glass panes like tiny, frantic fingers.
Roman did not jump up. He did not scream. He simply looked across the room at his cousin, who was still holding his glass of scotch near the mantlepiece.
Julian’s face had lost its color, but his hand remained steady. He set the glass down on the stone shelf with a soft, deliberate click.
“He’s an old man, Roman,” Julian said smoothly, though his voice had lost its relaxed warmth. “He’s confused. He’s trying to shift blame because he knows he compromised the records.”
“Is he?” Roman asked.
Roman picked up a sheet of paper from beneath the blotter. “This is the forensic report from our server in Milan, Julian. Marco had our tech team run the IP addresses for the Kensington wire confirmations twenty minutes ago. The emails didn't come from London. They were generated from a server on the fifth floor of this building.”
Julian didn't answer.
“Your floor,” Roman added.
Julian took a slow breath. He adjusted his charcoal cuffs, smoothed the front of his vest, and straightened his spine. The deferential, polite expression he had worn for ten years as Roman’s loyal cousin melted away, replaced by something cold, sharp, and intensely bitter.
“She was a weak girl, Roman,” Julian said, his tone turning crisp and devoid of regret. “She didn't belong in this family. You married a diner girl from Pilsen because she had pretty eyes, and within two years she was turning you soft. You stopped three port expansions because she didn't like the noise. You refused to clear the West Side crews because she talked about their children.”
“So you took her money,” Roman said.
“I protected the syndicate!” Julian spat, his eyes flaring with sudden rage. “The family was bleeding millions during the New York conflict! We needed liquidity for the docks, we needed grease for the city council, and you were setting aside two million dollars for a woman who didn't even have the spine to demand what she was owed!”
“And the baby?” Roman whispered. “Did you know she was pregnant when you had Vance throw her onto the street with five hundred dollars?”
Julian smiled—a small, terrible movement of his lips. “A child by a weak mother is a liability to the succession, Roman. You know the rules of the council as well as I do. If she had stayed in Chicago and had that baby, you would have brought her back into this house. You would have made her child your heir.”
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Julian stepped toward the desk, leaning his hands on the leather edge, staring right into Roman’s eyes.
“I didn't steal that money for myself,” Julian hissed. “I used it to buy the docks from the Genovese family. I made us powerful while you were crying over a divorce.”
