Chapter 6 - The Long Way Home
The legal storm that followed was swift and total. With the mountain of evidence provided by Roman’s anonymous leaks, federal authorities dismantled the remaining threads of Hector Bellamy’s old network within a fortnight. Silas Vance and three high-ranking syndicate members were indicted on charges ranging from wire fraud to conspiracy to commit murder.
Through it all, Roman stayed completely out of the public eye.
A month after the night in Warehouse 4, a low-slung, dark blue station wagon—not a black armored Suburban—pulled up outside the small white house overlooking the harbor at Port Haven.
The rain had finally cleared, replaced by a crisp, golden autumn sun that made the sea look like polished granite.
Roman stepped out of the vehicle. He wasn't wearing his charcoal overcoat or his tailored suits. He wore a simple navy sweater, wool trousers, and sturdy boots. He carried a leather satchel in one hand.
He walked up the wooden porch steps and knocked gently on the door.
Evelyn opened it. She wore her familiar blue apron, her hair tied back in a tidy bun. She looked at him for a long moment, sweeping her sharp eyes over his relaxed shoulders and the absence of armed bodyguards at his back.
"Is it over?" she asked softly.
"It’s over," Roman said. "The syndicate is gone. The assets have been transferred to a blind legal trust that will fund marine conservation and harbor repairs across the state. Roman Bellamy, the waterfront boss, no longer exists."
Evelyn nodded slowly, a deep, weary tension melting from her face for the first time in nine years. "Come in. She’s in the garden."
Roman walked through the cozy house, out the back kitchen door, and into a small, sunlit patch of land flanked by high stone walls.
Mara was kneeling in the dirt, wearing yellow rubber boots and her oversized green sweater. She was carefully planting tulip bulbs in neat, straight rows.
She heard his footsteps and turned around, shading her eyes with a soil-stained glove.
"You took a long time," she said, squinting up at him. "My grandmother said you went to fix things, but it’s been four weeks. That’s almost a whole month."
Roman sat down on his haunches in the grass, not caring about the damp earth on his trousers.
"I had a lot of bad clams to clean up," Roman said gently.
Mara looked at him thoughtfully. "Did you tell the bad men to apologize?"
"Some of them," Roman replied. "The rest are going to be sitting in a very quiet room for a very long time, thinking about what they did."
"Good," Mara said, satisfied. She picked up another bulb and held it out to him. "Can you dig a hole? My arms are tired. Grandmother says these need to go deep so the frost doesn't get them."
Roman took the small trowel from the grass and began to dig into the dark Maine earth. His hands, which had controlled millions of dollars and held the power of life and death along the coast, were now carefully cradling tiny plant bulbs under the instruction of an eight-year-old girl.
"Are you staying?" Mara asked suddenly, not looking up from her work.
Roman paused, the trowel suspended above the ground. "Do you want me to stay?"
Mara shrugged her small shoulders with elaborate indifference, though her eyes were bright behind her clean glasses. "Grandmother says we have a spare room upstairs. And you’re pretty good at digging holes. Plus, you still owe us for the basket from last month."
May you like
Roman felt a warmth bloom in his chest—a feeling so strange and unfamiliar that it took him a moment to realize it was simple, unadulterated hope.
"I think I can manage that," he said softly.
