Chapter 7 - Ash and Gasoline
By two o’clock in the morning, the sky above South Chicago burned an eerie, apocalyptic orange. Three major freight terminals along the Calumet River, previously held by Victor Dane’s shell corporations, were engulfed in four-alarm blazes. The sound of exploding fuel tanks rattled windows five miles away. Roman didn't just seize the assets; he destroyed them completely, sending an unmistakable message to the Chicago underworld: Cross this line, and nothing remains.
Inside the private boardroom of Calloway Capital, the lights were dimmed. Douglas Ward sat alone at the long conference table, clutching a glass of scotch with shaking hands. The news broadcasts on the muted television screens showed footage of Dane’s empire crumbling into ash.
The heavy oak doors swung open. Douglas jumped, spilling amber liquid across the polished wood.
Roman stepped into the room, followed by Lev. Roman had shed his tactical gear and wore a fresh charcoal three-piece suit, immaculate except for the faint trace of Elena’s dried blood on his French cuffs.
“Roman,” Douglas gasped, scrambling to his feet, trying desperately to mask the sheer terror in his eyes. “Thank God you’re alive! The street reports... they said there was an ambush. Did you... did you retrieve Mrs. Calloway?”
Roman walked slowly around the table, his steps measured and rhythmic. He didn't speak. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pristine manila envelope, tossing it onto the table in front of Douglas.
Douglas looked down. Sticking out of the envelope was a printout of an encrypted offshore wire transfer originating from a Panamanian trust account linked directly to Victor Dane. The beneficiary was Douglas Ward’s personal retirement vehicle in the Cayman Islands.
The sum: fifteen million dollars.
Douglas’s knees gave out. He collapsed back into his leather chair, his face turning the color of curdled milk. “Roman... please. You don’t understand. The organization was losing direction! You were becoming soft, distracted by this woman, by legitimate ventures! I spent thirty years building this family with your father!”
“My father would have executed you on the sidewalk twenty minutes ago,” Roman said, his voice flat, devoid of anger. That made it ten times worse. “You sold out my wife to a degenerate who put his hands on her. You thought you were preserving an empire, Douglas. But you forgot one fundamental truth.”
Roman leaned over the table, placing his palms flat on the wood.
“I am the empire. And Elena is my wife. Not on paper. Not for public relations. In blood.”
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Douglas began to weep openly, blabbering incoherent apologies, begging for his life, citing his decades of service. Roman didn't flinch. He simply nodded toward Lev.
“Take him to the river,” Roman ordered quietly. “Let him watch the terminals burn. When the fire reaches the water, throw him in.”
