Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Offered His Fake Wife a Deal—But She Discovered the Signature That Destroyed Her Father's Company Belonged to Someone Already DeadThe first thing Sloan Mercer noticed about Roman Costa's car was that the doors didn't make a sound when they closed.
The second was that everything inside smelled like cedarwood, expensive leather, and the kind of money that never needed to explain itself.
She sat stiffly against the passenger-side door, her hands folded in her lap, watching the lights of downtown Chicago smear across the rain-covered windows.
Her right knee throbbed.
There was dried scotch on her stockings.
And less than twenty minutes earlier, a man she had never met had publicly announced that she was his wife.
She turned toward him.
“Are you insane?”
Roman looked up from his phone.
“Possibly. I've been accused of worse.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
“You told Preston Hayes that we're married.”
“Yes.”
“We aren't.”
“I'm aware.”
“Then why would you say something like that?”
Roman slipped his phone into his coat pocket.
“Because Preston understands ownership better than he understands respect.”
Sloan stared at him.
“That is the worst explanation I've ever heard.”
Roman's mouth twitched.
“Fair criticism.”
“No. You don't understand. Men like Preston don't walk away because another man claims something belongs to him. They become obsessed with proving they can take it back.”
The faint amusement vanished from Roman's face.
He studied her.
“You've dealt with that before.”
Sloan looked out the window.
“Three years of it.”
Roman said nothing.
The car moved through a yellow traffic light.
Finally, Sloan turned back.
“Take me home.”
“Of course.”
She blinked.
“No argument?”
“Why would I argue?”
“Because men who make public declarations about women they don't know usually aren't very good at accepting instructions.”
Roman looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“You're right.”
Sloan frowned.
“About what?”
“What I said in the club was wrong.”
She hadn't expected that.
Roman continued.
“I was trying to stop Preston from humiliating you. But I used a claim about you without asking your permission.”
He paused.
“I apologize.”
Sloan stared at him.
She had spent years learning to recognize fake apologies.
Preston's always contained an excuse.
You misunderstood.
You're too sensitive.
I was only joking.
Roman's contained none.
That unsettled her.
“Thank you,” she said cautiously.
Roman nodded.
“Where do you live?”
“Albany Park.”
He gave the driver an address she supplied.
Then he looked at her injured knee.
“Would you like a doctor to examine that?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
He accepted the answer.
Sloan looked away.
She was beginning to understand why Roman Costa frightened people.
It wasn't his voice.
It wasn't his expensive suit.
It was the strange combination of absolute confidence and complete stillness.
He seemed like a man who could order an entire room to empty without raising his voice.
And yet he had just accepted three refusals from a waitress without argument.
That made him harder to understand.
Her apartment building stood above a closed hardware store.
The elevator had been broken for eleven days.
The hallway smelled of old carpet and somebody's burned dinner.
Roman followed her up four flights after asking whether she wanted him to accompany her.
Sloan had almost refused.
Then she remembered Preston's threat.
You'll regret this.
She unlocked her apartment.
The place was small but clean.
A drafting table occupied the space where a dining table should have been.
Rolled architectural plans stood in a cardboard tube beside the couch.
There were books everywhere.
Building codes.
Structural engineering.
Urban planning.
A framed photograph of a smiling man in his sixties stood beside the window.
Roman stopped when he saw it.
“Henry.”
Sloan turned sharply.
“You knew my father?”
Roman nodded.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My father invested in one of his hospital projects.”
Sloan studied him.
“Which one?”
“Mercer Children's Hospital. The original west-wing expansion.”
Her expression changed.
“That was twenty years ago.”
“I was seventeen.”
Roman approached the photograph.
“Your father told me that a building should make people feel safe before it made anyone feel impressed.”
Sloan's throat tightened.
That sounded exactly like Henry Mercer.
He had said similar things to her a hundred times.
She looked away before Roman could see her eyes fill.
“He used to believe that.”
Roman turned.
“Doesn't he anymore?”
Sloan's jaw tightened.
“He barely speaks.”
Roman said nothing.
She crossed to the kitchen and filled a glass with water.
“He had a stroke six months after the company collapsed. The doctors said the stress probably contributed, although they couldn't prove it.”
She took a sip.
“He lost his business. His home. His reputation. Then he lost most of his ability to communicate.”
Roman's expression darkened.
“I'm sorry.”
Sloan laughed bitterly.
“Everyone is sorry.”
She set down the glass.
“Preston was sorry when he left me. The bank was sorry when it foreclosed. The lawyers were sorry when I couldn't afford to keep paying them.”
She looked directly at Roman.
“Sorry doesn't fix anything.”
Roman nodded.
“No. It doesn't.”
For several seconds, the apartment was silent.
Then he reached into his coat.
Sloan stiffened.
Roman removed a slim black folder.
“I brought this because I thought you deserved to see it.”
He placed the folder on her drafting table.
Sloan stared.
“What is it?”
“Documents related to the acquisition of Mercer Construction.”
Her heart began pounding.
“Where did you get them?”
“An internal investigation.”
“Into Preston?”
“Into my uncle.”
Sloan looked up.
Roman's expression hardened.
“Dominic Costa has been acquiring distressed construction companies through a network of shell corporations. Several of those companies were financially healthy before he became involved.”
Sloan opened the folder.
Bank transfers.
Loan agreements.
Property deeds.
Corporate resolutions.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the pages.
She recognized the names.
The dates.
The contracts.
She had spent three years trying to understand how her father's company had collapsed.
Now pieces of the puzzle lay in front of her.
Then she reached a page that made her blood turn cold.
A transfer agreement.
Dated April 17.
Signed by Henry Mercer.
Sloan stared.
“No.”
Roman leaned forward.
“What?”
She pointed.
“This is impossible.”
“Why?”
“My father was in the hospital that day.”
Roman frowned.
“Are you certain?”
Sloan looked up.
“He was admitted on April 12. He didn't leave until May.”
Roman studied the signature.
“It could have been signed remotely.”
Sloan shook her head.
“No.”
She flipped to another page.
“Look at the witness.”
Roman leaned closer.
The witness signature belonged to a man named Charles Whitcomb.
Sloan's hands began shaking.
“Charles Whitcomb died in February.”
Roman went completely still.
“What?”
“He was my father's business partner. He died two months before this document was signed.”
Silence.
Roman stared at the page.
Then he slowly sat back.
“A dead man witnessed the transfer.”
Sloan nodded.
Her eyes filled.
“This is fraud.”
Roman's expression hardened.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“Can we prove it?”
Roman reached for his phone.
“We're going to try.”
At nine the following morning, Sloan walked into the offices of Costa Maritime Holdings.
The building occupied thirty-six floors overlooking the Chicago River.
Its lobby contained more marble than her entire apartment building.
She wore the only professional suit she still owned.
Navy blue.
Slightly faded at the elbows.
The receptionist greeted her immediately.
“Miss Mercer. Mr. Costa is expecting you.”
Sloan followed a security escort to the top floor.
Roman stood beside the windows speaking with a woman in a charcoal blazer.
He turned when Sloan entered.
“Sloan.”
The woman beside him smiled.
“I'm Evelyn Hart.”
Sloan shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“I'm Roman's general counsel.”
Sloan looked at Roman.
“You have your own lawyer?”
Evelyn laughed.
“Several.”
Roman looked offended.
“Apparently I require supervision.”
“Constantly,” Evelyn replied.
Sloan almost smiled.
Evelyn gestured toward the conference table.
“Let's talk about the documents.”
For the next two hours, they reviewed the transfer agreement.
Charles Whitcomb's death certificate confirmed that he had died on February 3.
The supposed witness signature was dated April 17.
The notary stamp belonged to a woman whose license had expired the previous year.
And the bank records showed that Preston Hayes had received a substantial payment from a company controlled by Dominic Costa just three days before the transfer.
Sloan stared at the evidence.
“Preston sold my father's company.”
Evelyn nodded.
“It appears he helped arrange the fraudulent transfer.”
Sloan's jaw tightened.
“He told me he was trying to save it.”
Roman watched her carefully.
Sloan continued.
“He said my father had made terrible financial decisions. He said I needed to trust him.”
Her voice cracked.
“He told me he loved me.”
Roman looked away.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Evelyn said:
“We may have enough to reopen the civil case and refer the suspected forgery to prosecutors.”
Sloan looked up.
“May?”
Evelyn nodded.
“We need authenticated originals, additional transaction records, and testimony from people involved.”
Sloan exhaled.
“So we're not there yet.”
“Not yet.”
Roman leaned forward.
“But we're closer than you were yesterday.”
Sloan looked at him.
He held her gaze.
For the first time in three years, she allowed herself to believe that her father's name might be cleared.
At noon, Roman made an offer.
He placed a contract in front of Sloan.
She stared at it.
“What is this?”
“A consulting agreement.”
She frowned.
“For what?”
“Your architectural expertise.”
Sloan laughed.
“I haven't finished my degree.”
“You completed most of it.”
“That doesn't make me an architect.”
“No,” Roman agreed. “But you worked at Mercer Construction for years. You understand the company's projects better than anyone still involved.”
Sloan studied the document.
The salary was more than four times what she earned at the Obsidian Club.
Her stomach tightened.
“This is too much.”
Roman shook his head.
“It's market compensation for specialized work.”
“I'm not taking charity.”
“I'm not offering charity.”
She looked at him.
“What exactly would I be doing?”
“Helping our legal and financial teams identify discrepancies in the Mercer portfolio.”
Sloan hesitated.
“And afterward?”
“You can decide whether to stay.”
She looked at the contract.
Then at Roman.
“Why?”
He considered.
“Because you're qualified.”
“That isn't the whole answer.”
“No.”
He leaned back.
“Because my family helped destroy yours.”
Sloan's expression changed.
Roman continued.
“And because I want to help correct that.”
She studied him.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Sloan pushed the contract back.
“I have conditions.”
Roman raised an eyebrow.
“I'm listening.”
“I report to Evelyn. Not you.”
“Agreed.”
“I can leave whenever I want.”
“Agreed.”
“You don't get to use this job to make decisions about my personal life.”
Roman smiled faintly.
“Agreed.”
“And if we find evidence against your uncle, it goes to the authorities.”
His expression hardened.
“Absolutely.”
Sloan took a breath.
Then she extended her hand.
“Fine.”
Roman shook it.
“Welcome aboard, Miss Mercer.”
By Friday, Sloan had discovered something disturbing.
The fraudulent transfer wasn't limited to Mercer Construction's commercial properties.
A second agreement had quietly transferred ownership of a parcel of land on Chicago's South Side.
The parcel contained an unfinished community housing development designed by her father.
Sloan remembered it immediately.
Mercer Gardens.
Two hundred affordable apartments.
A daycare center.
A community clinic.
Her father's favorite project.
She stared at the ownership records.
The land had been transferred to a company called Northbridge Urban Partners.
Northbridge was controlled by Dominic Costa.
And its latest development proposal called for demolishing the unfinished housing complex and replacing it with luxury condominiums.
Sloan felt sick.
She walked into Roman's office without knocking.
He looked up.
“Sloan?”
She dropped the documents on his desk.
“Did you know about this?”
Roman read the first page.
His expression changed.
“Mercer Gardens.”
She nodded.
“My father spent eight years designing that project.”
Roman looked at the plans.
“He wanted families who couldn't afford downtown rents to have decent housing.”
Sloan's voice cracked.
“He said the city didn't need another luxury tower.”
Roman looked up.
“Dominic wants to demolish it.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
Sloan stepped closer.
“Tell me something.”
Roman waited.
“Are you going to protect your uncle?”
The question hung between them.
Roman looked at the documents.
Then back at Sloan.
“No.”
She searched his face.
“Even if it costs you everything?”
Roman paused.
For the first time, he looked uncertain.
Then he answered:
“Yes.”
That evening, Dominic Costa arrived at Roman's office.
He was sixty-two, silver-haired, and impeccably dressed.
He had helped raise Roman after his father died.
He had taught him business.
Negotiation.
Loyalty.
And the value of fear.
Dominic smiled when he entered.
“Roman.”
Roman remained seated.
“Uncle.”
Dominic looked toward Sloan, who stood beside Evelyn.
His smile faded.
“Who is this?”
Roman answered calmly.
“Sloan Mercer.”
Dominic went still.
For one brief second, something ugly crossed his face.
Then he smiled again.
“Henry Mercer's daughter.”
Sloan held his gaze.
“Yes.”
Dominic looked toward Roman.
“I didn't realize you were hiring waitresses.”
Roman's expression hardened.
“She's a consultant.”
Dominic laughed.
“How progressive.”
Sloan felt anger rise.
But she remained silent.
Roman stood.
“We need to discuss Mercer Construction.”
Dominic's smile disappeared.
“Do we?”
Roman placed the fraudulent transfer on the desk.
“Charles Whitcomb signed this two months after he died.”
Silence.
Dominic looked at the document.
Then at Roman.
“Interesting.”
Roman's voice hardened.
“Who authorized it?”
Dominic shrugged.
“Ask Preston.”
“We did.”
Dominic's eyes narrowed.
“And?”
Roman stepped closer.
“He says you gave him the documents.”
Dominic laughed.
“Preston Hayes would blame his own mother if it saved him a dollar.”
Sloan watched him carefully.
Then she noticed something.
Dominic's right hand.
A heavy gold signet ring.
An engraved crest.
She had seen that crest before.
Not on a document.
On the cuff link worn by the man who visited her father in the hospital shortly before his stroke.
Her stomach tightened.
She stepped forward.
“Have we met?”
Dominic turned.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Sloan looked directly at him.
“You visited my father at Northwestern Memorial three years ago.”
Dominic went still.
Roman looked between them.
“Sloan?”
She continued.
“I remember your ring.”
Dominic smiled thinly.
“You must be mistaken.”
Sloan shook her head.
“No.”
She remembered the hallway.
Her father asleep.
A silver-haired man speaking quietly to Preston.
The same ring.
The same voice.
She looked at Roman.
“He was there.”
Dominic's expression hardened.
Roman turned toward his uncle.
“Why?”
Dominic said nothing.
Roman stepped closer.
“Why were you visiting Henry Mercer?”
Dominic smiled coldly.
“Because he owed me money.”
Sloan froze.
“My father didn't owe you anything.”
Dominic looked at her.
“Your father was a sentimental fool who didn't understand business.”
Roman's jaw tightened.
“Enough.”
Dominic ignored him.
“He could have taken the settlement. Sold the properties. Walked away wealthy.”
Sloan stared.
“What settlement?”
Dominic smiled.
“The one he refused.”
Roman went still.
“What are you talking about?”
Dominic looked toward him.
Then seemed to realize he had said too much.
His expression changed.
Roman stepped forward.
“Uncle.”
Silence.
“What settlement?”
Dominic looked at Sloan.
His smile disappeared.
Then he said quietly:
“Your father had a choice.”
Sloan felt cold.
“What choice?”
Dominic leaned closer.
“Sign the transfer.”
He paused.
“Or watch his daughter lose everything.”
Sloan stopped breathing.
Roman stared at his uncle.
And in that moment, the truth became horrifyingly clear.
Henry Mercer hadn't simply been defrauded.
He had been threatened.
May you like
And he had refused to surrender.
End of Chapter 2.
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