Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the North End
"Don't touch that!" Clara cried, rushing around the counter.
She grabbed his arm, trying to yank him backward. Her fingers curled around the hard muscle beneath his rolled-up sleeve. It felt like grabbing a steel beam. Roman didn't even flinch. He didn't look up at her angry face; his attention was fixed entirely on the floorboards.
"Clara," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "If anyone else in my organization finds out this ledger exists, they won't negotiate. They won't buy your bakery, and they won't offer you a transition plan. They will tear this building down to the dirt to find those pages. Because that book contains names of people who are now powerful politicians, judges, and developers in this city."
Clara stopped pulling. Her hand remained on his arm, her fingers trembling against his warm skin.
"What do you care?" she whispered. "If it has that much power, why do you want it?"
Roman finally looked up. Up close, his eyes were striking—surrounded by thick dark lashes, yet cold and sharp like winter ice.
"Because I'm cleaning house," Roman said quietly. "My uncle ran this city like a mafia boss out of a bad movie. I'm trying to turn Valenti Enterprises into a legitimate global logistics and real estate firm. But ghosts from the past keep haunting me. That ledger is a ghost that can destroy everything I've built."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small pocketknife, flipped open the blade, and slid it into the crack of the old oak floorboard. With a single controlled twist, the rusted screw popped free with a dry crunch.
Clara held her breath.
Roman lifted the board.
Beneath it lay a dark, hollow cavity in the concrete foundation. Inside sat a single object: a thick, leather-bound book wrapped in heavy oilcloth, its edges stained with age and dampness.
Roman reached down, pulled it out, and unwrapped the cloth. He flipped open the cover, scanning the handwritten pages covered in his late uncle's aggressive ink strokes.
"It's here," Roman murmured.
"Are you going to burn it?" Clara asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Roman closed the book slowly. He looked up at her, the harsh kitchen light casting shadows across his sharp jawline.
"No," he said. "If I burn it, people will still think I'm holding secrets over their heads. I'm going to return it to the people whose names were stolen—starting with your family."
He held the leather book out to her.
Clara stared at it. For years, this object had been the source of her father's paranoia, her family's quiet fear, and the dark shadow hanging over their lives. And now, the most feared man in Boston was simply handing it back.
"Why?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Why do this for me?"
Roman stood up, towering over her in the narrow kitchen space. He closed the small distance between them, his gaze dropping momentarily to her lips before rising back to her eyes.
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"Because you threw flour at me, Clara," he said softly, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Nobody has ever had the guts to do that. And frankly... your bakery makes the best sourdough in Boston. I'd hate to see it close."
Before Clara could formulate a single coherent thought, the bell at the front of the shop chimed again.
