Chapter 2 - Blood and Blackmail in the Drawing Room
The drawing room was a sanctuary of old money, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books that no one ever read and oil portraits of dead Davenport ancestors looking down with haughty disapproval. A fire crackled briskly in the massive stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany furniture. Roman did not ask for permission; he led Khloe straight to the center leather sofa, easing her down into the cushions before turning to stand directly in front of the fire, cutting off Harrison and Patricia from its warmth.
Enzo and two other men, their hands resting loosely near their concealed holsters, stood by the heavy double doors, sealing the only exit. Outside the leaded windows, the downpour battered the glass, accompanied by the low, steady idling of three black Escalades on the lawn.
"Start talking, Harrison," Roman commanded, not raising his voice. He reached into his vest pocket, retrieved a gold-plated lighter, and turned it over and over between his long fingers with a sharp, hypnotic click-clack. "Tell me how Liam’s private bank accounts—the ones funded by his personal trust from his grandfather—were liquidated forty-eight hours before his heart stopped."
Harrison swallowed dryly, his tongue darting out to wet his cracked lips. "Liam was sick! Everyone knew he was spiraling! He needed experimental treatments abroad, and Khloe was the one who signed off on the medical proxies. She drained him, not us! She burned through every dime trying to save a corpse!"
"That is a lie!" Khloe stood up, the coat slipping slightly off her shoulders, her eyes blazing with a fury she hadn't known she possessed until this very moment. "I used my own gallery commission! I worked twelve hours a day, then slept in the hospital chair by his bed! You never visited him, Harrison! You were in Saint-Tropez on a yacht while your brother was coughing up blood in the ICU! Patricia only showed up when the doctors told us to call the priest!"
Patricia drew herself up, trying desperately to summon the haughty socialite armor that had terrified Chicago's country clubs for three decades. "You insolent little mechanic's daughter! Liam was a Davenport. Whatever money he had belonged to this family lineage, not to some charity case he dragged into high society! The family attorney, Arthur Vance, oversaw every document. Liam signed the revised codicil leaving the entirety of his assets and his portfolio to his brother. It was his dying wish to keep the Davenport legacy intact!"
Roman chuckled, a sound like grinding slate that made the hairs on Khloe’s arms stand up. He stopped flipping his lighter and slipped it back into his pocket.
"Arthur Vance," Roman repeated, savoring the name as if tasting a fine wine. "Tall fellow? Silver hair? Has a fondness for high-stakes baccarat at my private club in Chinatown? The same Arthur Vance who currently owes the Moretti family two million two hundred thousand dollars in gambling markers?"
Patricia’s aristocratic facade cracked wide open. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut, resembling a landed fish gasping for air.
"You see, Patricia," Roman stepped forward, invading Harrison's personal space until the younger man was forced to lean back over the polished grand piano, "Arthur Vance knows exactly what happens to men who write bad checks in my town. And when Arthur Vance realized that Liam was unconscious on a ventilator when his signature was allegedly notarized, Arthur became very, very cooperative with my auditors this afternoon."
Roman reached inside his breast pocket, drew out a thick manila folder, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a resounding smack. The papers spilled outward, revealing certified bank statements, forged medical transfer powers, and high-resolution photographs of Harrison meeting a known document forger in a subterranean parking garage off Michigan Avenue.
"You forged your brother’s signature on his deathbed," Khloe gasped, staring at the undeniable proof laid out on the table. Tears of sheer betrayal finally spilled over her lashes, hot and stinging against her cold skin. "He was dying, Harrison. He couldn't even squeeze my hand, and you were stealing the roof from over my head."
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"He was going to give it all to you!" Harrison burst out, his voice turning into an ugly, venomous shriek as the cornered rat within him broke loose. "A common girl! A nobody! Liam wanted to cut us out completely! He left everything to you in his real will—the Astor Street mansion, the downtown commercial properties, the Swiss holdings! Why should you get thirty million dollars while I grovel for an allowance from mother? Liam was a fool blinded by your pretty face!"
"And you," Roman whispered, his face inches from Harrison’s sweat-slicked brow, "are an insect who thought you could step on someone under my protection."
