Chapter 12 - The Whispers of the Past
The guest quarters of the stone mansion were the size of a luxury apartment.
Chloe was asleep in the master bedroom, sedated by a heavy dose of trauma and a glass of warm milk laced with a mild tranquilizer provided by the estate doctor.
Harper could not sleep.
She paced the length of the Persian rug in the sitting room.
The heavy mahogany doors were unlocked, but the silent, armed guard stationed at the end of the hallway was a clear indicator of her status.
She was a high-value prisoner.
Harper walked over to the towering bookshelf that lined the far wall.
She reached behind a row of leather-bound encyclopedias and pulled out a silver letter opener she had stolen from the downstairs study.
It was not much of a weapon, but the cold metal in her palm offered a tiny shred of comfort.
She had to understand why Roman was keeping them alive.
The seventy million dollars was safely tucked away in his ghost accounts.
Her usefulness to the Falco syndicate was officially over.
Yet, here she was, sleeping under his roof, eating his food, and protected by his private army.
The soft click of the door handle made Harper freeze.
She slipped the letter opener into the pocket of her borrowed silk robe.
Roman stepped into the room.
He was no longer wearing the blood-spattered charcoal suit.
He wore a simple black sweater and dark trousers, making him look less like a mobster and more like a predatory shadow.
You are awake, he observed, his voice low and smooth.
It is difficult to sleep when you realize you traded a domestic abuser for a professional psychopath, Harper replied coldly.
Roman walked over to a small mahogany table and poured two glasses of scotch from a crystal decanter.
He offered her one.
She did not take it.
Roman drank his own glass in one slow, deliberate swallow.
Your sister will be safe here, Roman said, looking out the reinforced glass window into the dark woods.
And what about me? Harper asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
What happens to me now that you have the cartel's money?
Roman turned to face her, his dark eyes analyzing her every movement.
You think this was about the money.
He set the empty glass down with a sharp clink.
The money was simply a convenient bonus, Harper.
He took a step closer to her.
The air in the room suddenly felt dangerously thin.
I have been hunting the remnants of the Vargas cartel for a decade, Roman said softly.
Your boss, Davis, was merely a middle manager.
The real prize was exposing the architect of their financial network.
Harper furrowed her brow in confusion.
I just processed their corporate payroll, she said defensively.
I didn't know they were a cartel until tonight.
Roman smiled.
It was a cold, terrifying expression that did not reach his eyes.
I know you didn't, he whispered.
But your father did.
Harper’s breath hitched in her throat.
Her hand instinctively gripped the letter opener in her pocket.
My father was an accountant, she stammered.
He died in a robbery twenty years ago.
Roman shook his head slowly.
Your father was Arthur Vance.
He was the chief money launderer for the Vargas cartel.
He stole thirty million dollars from them, and he hid the encryption keys before he was murdered.
May you like
Roman took another step closer, entirely invading her personal space.
And I believe, Harper, that he hid those keys with you.
