Records connected to the Romano family.
Silas looked at Khloe differently now.
Not like the waitress he wanted to protect.
Like someone who had walked knowingly into a den of wolves while carrying a blade they had never seen.
“You took this job because of us,” he said.
Khloe nodded.
“Because of her.”
Beatrice laughed.
It sounded brittle.
“This child serves wine for six months and suddenly thinks she understands an empire.”
Khloe reached into the folder again.
“This child spent five years understanding one set of numbers.”
She placed several photocopied pages on the table.
Their fine details stayed hidden beneath her hand.
Silas looked at the columns, dates, and initials.
His face changed.
He recognized the structure even if the nearby diners could not.
“These are internal accounts.”
“Yes.”
“Where did he get them?”
“He created some of them.”
Beatrice stepped forward.
“They’re forgeries.”
Silas ignored her.
“What did he find?”
Khloe had imagined answering that question for years.
Now that the moment had arrived, her voice almost failed.
She forced it steady.
“Money leaving companies controlled by your father and moving through accounts your mother controlled.”
Beatrice scoffed.
“Family money moves between family accounts every day.”
“Not like this.”
Khloe pointed toward a sequence of entries.
“Arthur noticed transfers being disguised as shipping losses and consulting fees.
Small enough individually not to trigger attention.
Large enough over time to become millions.”
Silas’s eyes remained on the pages.
“You’re accusing my mother of stealing?”
“No.”
Beatrice relaxed slightly.
Khloe looked directly at her.
“My father thought the money was paying people.”
The relief vanished.
Silas lifted his eyes.
“Paying them for what?”
Khloe hesitated.
This was the point of no return.
“Your father died two years after mine disappeared.”
Silas’s face became unreadable.
Around them, Laura remained silent enough that Khloe could hear the faint hum of refrigeration behind the bar.
“My father’s death has nothing to do with this,” Silas said.
“Arthur thought it would.”
Beatrice snapped, “Enough.”
Silas turned.
His mother’s composure had fractured.
Not completely.
