Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Estate
Upstairs in the master suite, the lights suddenly flickered and died.
The glowing amber flames of the marble fireplace were the only light remaining, casting long, dancing shadows across the high mahogany walls.
I stood up instantly, pulling Amara behind me. "Amara, get under the desk. Now."
"Mom—"
"Do it, sweetheart. Hide behind the leather chair and don't make a sound."
Amara sprinted across the rug, ducking beneath the massive oak desk in the corner, clutching her stuffed bear to her chest.
I snatched a silver-plated heavy iron poker from the fireplace tool stand, clutching it with both hands. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Outside the heavy double doors, a sudden, muffled sound echoed—a quick thud, followed by the distinct sound of a body hitting the carpeted floor.
The guards outside had been taken down.
My knuckles turned white around the iron poker. I backed toward the desk, keeping my body between the entrance and my daughter.
The heavy brass handle of the double doors turned slowly.
The door swung open.
A man stepped into the dim, firelit room. It wasn't Roman.
It was Julian Valente, holding a silenced pistol in his gloved right hand. Two armed men in black tactical gear stood behind him in the hallway.
Julian looked around the opulent room, a bitter, twisted smile touching his handsome face. "Clara Bell. The observant little housekeeper."
"Stay back," I warned, raising the iron poker, my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my throat.
Julian chuckled, a dry, cold sound. "Put the stick down, Clara. You’re way out of your depth. You should have stayed in the kitchen where you belong."
"You tampered with your brother's medicine," I said, keeping him talking, praying that Roman or Marco was on their way. "You tried to kill Roman and frame your own uncle."
Julian’s smile faded, replaced by an ugly, burning hatred. "Roman is weak! He’s been weak ever since that fire! He sits on tens of millions of dollars in legitimate assets while refusing to let us expand into the real money! He’s let a childhood lung injury turn him into a timid old man!"
"He’s not weak," I spat. "He’s a man with a conscience. Something you clearly know nothing about."
Julian stepped closer, raising the gun directly at my chest. "Conscience doesn't run Chicago, darling. Power does. And unfortunately for you and your clever little brat, you found the one piece of paper that connects Vivian to my firm."
He glanced toward the desk where Amara was hiding.
"Where is the girl?" Julian asked softly. "I’d hate to make this messy, but I need to make sure neither of you ever speaks to Marco or the police."
"You touch my daughter and I will tear your eyes out," I growled, taking a step forward, completely ignoring the gun pointed at my heart.
Julian’s eyes flared with annoyance. "Pity. You’re actually quite pretty, Clara. But loose ends get people killed."
He raised the weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger.
CRACK!
A deafening gunshot shattered the room.
Julian gasped, a sudden look of utter shock washing over his face as his silenced pistol flew out of his hand, shattered by a heavy-caliber bullet. Blood sprayed from his mangled fingers as he staggered backward, screaming in pain.
In the doorway stood Roman Valente.
He was holding a massive black iron firearm, smoke curling from the barrel. His slate-gray eyes were ablaze with a terrifying, apocalyptic fury. Behind him, Marco and four loyal security guards swept into the room, instantly tackling Julian’s two tactical men to the floor with brutal efficiency.
Roman didn't even look at the mercenaries. His gaze was fixed entirely on Julian, who was cowering on the floor, clutching his bleeding hand.
Roman stepped into the room, his heavy leather boots crushing the shattered remnants of Julian’s gun.
"You dared," Roman whispered, his deep voice carrying a tremor of pure, unadulterated rage that made the very walls seem to shrink. "You dared bring weapons into my private quarters? To target an innocent woman and a child?"
"Roman—wait!" Julian shrieked, scrambling backward on his elbows until his back hit the wall. "It wasn't me! It was Dominic! He forced me—"
Roman reached down, grabbed Julian by his expensive silk tie, and lifted his thirty-four-year-old brother off the floor with one hand, slamming him violently against the mahogany paneling.
"Dominic didn't write the order on your firm's paper, Julian," Roman growled, his face inches from his brother's trembling, bloody face. "Dominic didn't pay Vivian through the Caymans. And Dominic would never be pathetic enough to threaten a mother protecting her child!"
Julian wept, his handsome facade completely destroyed. "Please, Roman! We’re brothers! Blood!"
"You ceased to be my brother the moment you poisoned my lungs and pointed a gun at Clara," Roman declared coldly.
He threw Julian to the floor at Marco’s feet.
"Take him down to the vault," Roman commanded Marco. "Lock him in the lower cell. Strip him of all communication devices. Tomorrow morning, we hold a full syndicate tribunal."
"Yes, Boss," Marco said, dragging the weeping Julian out into the hall while the other guards cleared the defeated mercenaries.
As the noise cleared and the corridor quieted down, the room returned to silence.
Roman stood in the middle of the firelit room, his broad shoulders heaving as he fought for oxygen. The physical exertion of sprinting up four flights of stairs and the intense adrenaline burst were taking a heavy toll on his damaged lungs.
He reached into his jacket, his hand trembling slightly as he pulled out his backup inhaler.
He raised it to his mouth, but his fingers were shaking so badly he dropped it.
The blue plastic canister rolled across the rug, stopping near my foot.
I dropped the iron poker, stepped forward, and picked up the inhaler.
I walked up to Roman. He was leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk, his face pale, his eyes filled with a rare, painful vulnerability that he had never shown another living soul.
"Breathe, Roman," I whispered softly.
I shook the inhaler, placed it gently between his lips, and pressed the canister as he inhaled deeply.
I held his strong, broad jaw with my hand, supporting him as he held the medication in his lungs for ten seconds, then slowly exhaled.
I repeated the process a second time.
Gradually, the color returned to his hard features. His harsh, whistling breath smoothed out into a steady, deep rhythm.
Throughout it all, Roman never took his slate-gray eyes off mine.
His large, calloused hand came up, wrapping around my wrist where I held his jaw. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle for a man whose hands held the weight of a city’s underworld.
"You didn't run," Roman whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the inside of my wrist. "He had a gun pointed at you, Clara. And you stood between him and your daughter without flinching."
"She’s my child," I replied softly, my heart beating frantically against my ribs—not from fear, but from the sudden, intense proximity of his chest against mine. "I would die for her."
"I know," Roman murmured, his voice dropping into a velvety, intimate baritone. "And from this night on, anyone who tries to hurt either of you will have to go through me first."
From under the desk, a small voice piped up.
"Is the mean man gone?" Amara asked, peeking her head out from behind the leather chair, clutching her stuffed bear.
Roman immediately let go of my jaw, stepping back to crouch down on one knee so he was at eye level with Amara.
The terrifying mob boss vanished, replaced by a man looking at a little girl with immense gentleness and respect.
"He’s gone, little one," Roman said softly, holding out his big hand. "And he is never, ever coming back."
Amara walked out from under the desk, looked at Roman’s open palm, and placed her small hand inside his.
"You shoot very fast," Amara observed approvingly.
May you like
Roman let out a low, deep rumble of a laugh—the first genuine sound of amusement I had heard from him in thirteen months.
"I try to be precise," Roman replied, looking up at me with an expression so warm and intensely devoted that my breath caught in my throat. "Especially when protecting things that are irreplaceable."
