Chapter 5 - The South Wing Intrusion
By December, the frost had settled deep into the stone walls of the estate, turning the windows into opaque sheets of white rime. The incident with the sniper on the highway had changed the rhythm of the house; there were three extra guards stationed in the foyer now, their tactical carbines resting across their knees as they drank Martha’s coffee. But the most significant change wasn't the security—it was the door to the south wing. It was no longer locked during the day.
Clara noticed it while vacuuming the second-floor gallery. The heavy mahogany double doors stood open by six inches, a deliberate gap that allowed the heat from Roman’s massive stone fireplace to drift out into the chilly hallway. She tried to ignore it, keeping her eyes fixed on the baseboards, but Leo had developed a sixth sense for the old man’s presence.
"Mr. Roman has a big dog," Leo said one afternoon as they sat in the kitchen eating lunch. He was using a silver spoon that Martha had given him to scoop up his soup. "A black dog with no ears. He lives under the desk."
Clara dropped her sandwich onto her plate, her heart leaping into her throat. "Leo, what did I tell you? You don't go down that hallway. Silas said—"
"I didn't go in," Leo said defensively, his lower lip sticking out. "Barnaby went in. He fell out of my pocket when I was looking at the big picture of the lady with the horse. Mr. Roman picked him up and put him on the dog’s head."
Clara stood up so fast her chair scraped against the tiles with a screech that made Martha look up from her dough. She didn't wait to hear the rest of the story; she ran up the service stairs, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. If Leo had been wandering near the south wing while the captains were in the house for their weekly sit-down, a single wrong word could get them both dumped in the river.
She reached the library landing just as the heavy double doors of Roman’s office swung wide. Four men in expensive, dark suits walked out—older men with thick necks and eyes like dead fish, the ward bosses from the South Side and the harbor districts. They were arguing in low, guttural Italian, their hands cutting the air with sharp, angry gestures.
As they passed Clara, one of them—a man named Gatti, whose left ear was missing its lobe—stopped and looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the collar of her simple gray dress. "Who's this?" he grunted, turning back toward Roman, who was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "You keeping domestic help on the executive floor now, Roman? Since when do we have women listening to the harbor numbers?"
"She's the housekeeper, Gatti," Roman said. His voice was flat, devoid of the respect Gatti clearly expected from a sit-down partner. "And she hears better than you do, which is why the books in this room don't smell like cigar ash anymore. Move along. The harbor numbers are closed until spring."
Gatti spat onto the edge of the Persian rug—a deliberate, filthy insult that made Silas step forward from the shadow of the staircase, his hand dropping toward his waistband. "You're changing, Roman," Gatti growled, his face reddening as he pointed a stubby finger toward the open office door. "The boys on the street say you're sitting in here reading books while the Vance crew is moving slots into our territory on 63rd. You let that girl's brat run around the hallway like it's a public park. A man who starts adopting stray dogs loses his bite."
Roman didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even raise his voice. He took two steps out into the hallway, closing the distance between himself and the South Side boss until his chest was six inches from Gatti’s face. He looked down at the spot of saliva on his rug, then up into Gatti’s yellow eyes.
"You have six hours to get your slots out of the 63rd Street corridor, Gatti," Roman said softly, his tone carrying the terrifying, absolute weight of an execution order. "If I see a single machine operating after midnight, I won't send Silas to smash them. I'll come down there myself and drop you into the harbor with your pockets stuffed with your own quarters. And if you ever look at my housekeeper again with that expression, I'll take your other ear off with a butter knife."
Gatti didn't say another word. He backed away, his face turning the color of cold tallow, before gesturing to his men to follow him down the stairs. Once the heavy front doors slammed shut below, Roman turned to Clara. She was trembling against the banister, her hands clamped together to stop their shaking.
"He's under the desk," Roman said, his voice instantly dropping its lethal edge as he gestured toward his office. "The boy. He hid when he heard Gatti shouting. He thinks the dog is going to bite the bald man."
Clara walked into the office, her legs feeling like wet sand. Under the massive mahogany desk, curled into a tight ball on the sheepskin rug with his hands over his ears and Barnaby clutched between his knees, was Leo. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were wide and dark with the specific, silent terror that children who grow up around violence learn too early.
"Leo," Clara choked out, dropping to her knees and reaching under the wood to pull him out. "Oh, God, baby, come here. Come to Mommy."
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Roman didn't sit down. He stood by the window, looking out at the freezing rain, his shoulders stiff under his shirt. As Clara gathered the boy into her arms, burying her face in his neck, Roman reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, flat silver box. He tossed it onto the sofa; it landed with a soft, metallic thud next to Clara’s hip.
"Take that," Roman said without looking around. "It's a key to the gate house on the west drive. There's a two-room apartment above the garage—it has its own boiler and a deadbolt that doesn't need a wooden chair to keep it closed. Move your things there tonight. I don't want the boy hearing Gatti’s kind of noise anymore."
