Chapter 7 - The Lion and the Lamb
The penthouse in Tribeca was less like an apartment and more like a high-tech fortress overlooking the glowing skyline of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the Hudson River, while reinforced steel shutters sat ready to drop at the press of a button.
For two days, Nora and Maisie remained inside the sanctuary.
While Roman spent hours in his private study conducting silent, deadly warfare through encrypted networks and loyal lieutenants who had confirmed their allegiance, Nora tried to keep Maisie entertained.
On the afternoon of the second day, Nora was sitting on the plush leather sofa, watching Maisie paint with a set of watercolors Roman had somehow ordered and delivered to the penthouse.
Roman emerged from his study, stripping off his suit jacket. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes evidence of forty-eight hours without sleep.
He walked over and sat down at the opposite end of the vast sofa.
“You should sleep,” Nora said softly.
“Sleep is a luxury for men with clean consciences,” Roman replied, resting his head back against the cushion. He watched Maisie paint a chaotic mix of blue and yellow across a white canvas. “She’s remarkably calm.”
“She trusts me,” Nora said. She looked down at her hands. “And… she trusts you.”
Roman turned his head to look at her. “She shouldn't. I am not a good man, Nora.”
“A bad man wouldn’t have soaked the floor around a three-year-old girl while his own legs were burning,” Nora said fiercely, her voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “A bad man wouldn’t have used his own body to shield us in that shed. You can pretend to be a monster all you want, Roman DeLuca. But I saw who you were when the fire started.”
Roman stared at her, caught off guard by the intensity in her green eyes. For a long, heavy moment, the distance between them vanished. The powerful crime lord and the quiet housekeeper were just two people bound together by fire and blood.
Roman reached out, his hand gently touching the side of her jaw. His fingers were warm, rough, and trembling slightly.
“Nora—”
Before he could finish, the red alarm light on the wall flashed to life.
A sharp, piercing siren cut through the quiet room.
Roman pulled his hand back instantly, his face hardening into granite. He sprang to his feet, pulling a handgun from his shoulder holster as the master monitor on the wall flipped to a security feed.
The private elevator in the underground garage had just been overridden.
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Three heavy tactical vans had smashed through the penthouse's private basement gates. A squad of armed men in black gear was pouring out, heavily equipped with breaching charges and automatic rifles.
Julian had found them.
