Chapter 8 - The Return of Roman
At four o'clock on the fourth afternoon, the storm had passed, leaving the sky over Lake Michigan a clear, brilliant shade of sapphire blue. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the tops of the waves in broad strokes of melt orange and liquid gold.
A heavy knock sounded at the front door.
Adrian stood up from the sofa, where he had been reading a heavy leather-bound book on maritime history while Naomi napped with her head in his lap.
He walked across the room, unlocked the oak door, and stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door behind him so the cool air wouldn't wake her.
Roman was standing on the top step, wearing his black wool coat, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He looked tired, his face lined with the exhaustion of four days spent sleeping in the back of an SUV near the gatehouse.
"Boss," Roman said, his voice low.
"Report," Adrian ordered, leaning his hip against the porch railing.
"The federal prosecutors in Chicago closed the preliminary grand jury file on the Calumet raid," Roman said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Your legal team signed the consent decree this afternoon. A fifty-thousand-dollar administrative fine for unmanifested cargo, and no criminal charges against the executive office."
Adrian didn't look surprised. "And the Detroit group?"
"Varga’s nephew tried to set up a meeting at the Drake Hotel yesterday," Roman continued. "He thought you were hiding because of the indictment. I told him you were on personal leave."
"What did he say?"
Roman allowed himself a tiny, grim smile. "He said he’d wait until you came back. He knows better than to push when you’re out of town, boss."
Adrian looked out over the blue expanse of the lake. The wind whipped his hair back from his forehead, his blue eyes sharp and clear in the late afternoon light.
"Tell Varga’s nephew that I am selling the Detroit spur line," Adrian said flatly.
Roman blinked, his broad jaw dropping an inch in genuine shock. "Boss? That line generates eighteen million a year in bulk transfer fees."
"And it brings twelve federal marshals to my dock every eighteen months," Adrian replied coldly. "Sell it to the Canadian Pacific line. Take fifteen percent below market value if they close within thirty days."
Roman stared at him for three full seconds, searching Adrian’s face for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty. He found none.
"Understood, boss," Roman grunted, nodding once. "Anything else?"
"Yes," Adrian said, turning back toward the heavy oak door. "Go into the town of St. Joseph. Find a bakery that makes lemon tarts—the good ones from fresh fruit, not the yellow paste from a bucket. Buy three dozen."
Roman stared at his chief executive as if Adrian had suddenly begun speaking fluent Latin. "Lemon tarts, boss?"
May you like
"My wife likes lemons," Adrian said flatly. "And if there is a single spot of dust on the boxes when you bring them up the drive, I will have you detailing the Suburbans in the lake with a toothbrush."
"Right away, Mr. Vale," Roman said, straightening his neck and turning down the wooden steps before Adrian could add any more culinary directives to his security duties.
