Chapter 2 - The Ledger of Greed
Celeste stood up so fast her chair screeched against the hardwood floor.
“Vincent! You cannot detain me! My family has business ties with your council!”
Vincent didn’t even blink.
“Sit down, Celeste.”
“I will not!”
“Marco,” Vincent said without looking away.
Marco stepped directly behind Celeste’s chair and placed one heavy hand on the backrest.
The message was clear.
Celeste swallowed hard and sank slowly back into her seat.
Vincent turned to me.
“Grace.”
“Yes, Mr. Romano?” I answered, keeping my voice steady despite my racing pulse.
“Take Ada into my father’s private study,” he instructed. “Make her tea. Warm. With the honey from the pantry. The one in the ceramic jar.”
“Right away, sir.”
Ada stood up, her small frame looking so fragile in that enormous dining hall.
She looked at Vincent with worried eyes.
“Vincent, son... don't make trouble on your father's night. I only wanted to bring the food.”
Vincent stepped toward Ada and took both of her weathered hands in his.
He bent down slightly, kissing the top of her head.
“You brought more than food, Ada,” he said softly. “You brought truth back into this house. Go with Grace. Rest. I will handle this.”
I guided Ada through the double doors and down the long, wood-paneled hallway.
Behind us, the heavy oak doors of the dining room clicked shut.
As soon as we reached the study, Ada sat in one of the deep leather armchairs by the unlit fireplace.
She was trembling.
“He shouldn't have seen that,” Ada murmured. “I never meant to cause an argument.”
“You didn't cause anything, Ada,” I said, pouring hot water into a porcelain cup. “What she did was theft.”
I stirred the honey into the cup and placed it gently in her hands.
“How did she approach you?” I asked quietly.
Ada stared down at the dark amber tea.
“Two weeks ago,” she said. “A man in a gray suit came to my apartment in Little Italy. He said he worked for Miss Marchesi. He handed me a printed letter on Romano stationery. It said that to maintain the dignity of the Romano legacy, all attendees of the private memorial were required to deposit five thousand dollars into an escrow fund.”
Ada took a trembling sip.
“He told me that if I didn't pay, it meant I didn't respect Don Salvatore.”
“That is disgusting,” I said, feeling my own anger rise.
“I only get eight hundred a month from my pension,” Ada whispered. “I didn't have five thousand dollars in the bank. So I went to the jeweler on Grand Street. The one Salvatore recommended thirty years ago.”
“The watch?”
Ada nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“It was solid gold. Salvatore had it engraved on the back for my thirty-year retirement anniversary. ‘To Ada, the heart of our home. With eternal gratitude, Salvatore Romano.’ The jeweler gave me fifty-five hundred for it.”
She wiped her eye with her sleeve.
“I kept five hundred for my groceries and gave the rest to the man in the gray suit.”
Before I could answer, the study door swung open.
Marco walked in, holding a black leather briefcase.
Behind him was Vincent.
Vincent walked straight to the mahogany desk and opened the briefcase.
Inside were stacks of printed receipts, ledgers, and a tablet.
“Grace,” Vincent said, his voice clipped and precise.
“Yes, Mr. Romano?”
“Celeste had an office set up in the west wing for event management. I want you to go with Marco. Take every document, every laptop, every USB drive you find. If there is a locked drawer, Marco will break it.”
“Understood, sir.”
Marco and I walked quickly through the estate’s grand corridors.
The west wing was quiet, separated from the main living quarters.
Celeste had claimed it three months ago, shortly after their engagement had been announced.
We entered the office.
It was luxurious, decorated with imported white leather furniture and modern gold accents.
On the glass desk sat a slim silver laptop and several folders.
“Check the filing cabinet behind the desk,” Marco said, moving toward the closet.
I sat in the swivel chair and pulled open the top drawer.
Inside was a burgundy ledger with gold lettering: Marchesi Events – Q4 Private Accounts.
I opened it.
My breath caught in my throat.
Page after page was filled with names.
Dozens of names.
Beside each name was a dollar amount and a status column marked ‘COLLECTED’ or ‘PENDING.’
Carlo Vitucci — $7,000 — PAID (Cashier’s Check)
Maria Bianchi — $4,500 — PAID (Cash)
Pietro Rossi — $6,000 — PAID (Wire)
Ada Ferri — $5,000 — PAID (Cash)
I flipped the page.
There were over sixty names.
Retired drivers. Former bodyguards. Kitchen staff. Gardeners. Even the widow of Don Salvatore’s old barber.
The total at the bottom of the page made my stomach churn:
TOTAL COLLECTED: $382,500.
“Marco,” I called out, my voice shaking. “Look at this.”
Marco stepped behind me and looked over my shoulder.
His jaw clenched until the muscle ticked beneath his skin.
“She stole nearly four hundred thousand dollars from old people,” Marco growled.
“And look at this column,” I pointed to small red asterisks beside certain names.
At the bottom of the ledger, a handwritten note in Celeste’s elegant cursive read:
‘If non-compliant, notify Enzo. Apply pressure regarding family housing leases.’
“Enzo is her brother,” Marco said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “He runs illegal loan shark operations in South Brooklyn.”
“She was threatening to evict them?” I asked, horrified.
Don Salvatore had owned several apartment buildings in the old neighborhood, renting them to his retired workers for minimal rent.
When Salvatore died, Celeste had apparently used that leverage to blackmail the seniors into paying for their invitations.
“Take the whole ledger,” Marco ordered, grabbing the laptop and pulling out the charging cord. “The boss is going to want to see every single page.”
We hurried back to the study.
When Vincent saw the ledger, the temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing.
He slowly turned the pages, reading every name.
His hands were completely steady, but I could see the terrifying fury burning behind his dark eyes.
“Three hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars,” Vincent whispered.
He looked at Ada, who was watching from the chair.
“She extorted my father’s people using our own properties as threats.”
Vincent closed the book with a heavy thud.
“Grace,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Romano?”
“Call our private driver. Have him bring our town car around to the front.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
May you like
Vincent adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
“We are going to buy back a watch.”
