Chapter 4 - Midnight Confessions
The days following the breach were marked by an electric, paranoid tension that hung over the McLean estate like a physical weight.
Roman doubled the armed patrols, replaced the entire electronic security grid, and quietly initiated a ruthless internal purge of anyone suspected of loyalty to Marcus Vance. Yet, inside the nursery and the kitchen, life seemed to flow with an eerie, domestic normalcy.
Josephine continued to bake cornbread. She helped Oliver with his math homework, kissed scraped knees, and sang soft lullabies to Finn when the autumn wind rattled the windowpanes. She acted entirely like a woman who had nothing to hide—which only made Roman’s obsessive watch over her more agonizing.
He watched her through the encrypted monitors in his study. He watched her laugh with his sons. He watched her trace the scar on her forearm while staring blankly out the window when she thought nobody was looking.
By Thursday night, the pressure had become unbearable.
At 1:30 AM, the house was buried in deep, unnatural silence. Roman walked out of his private study, his bare feet making no sound against the Persian hallway runners, and made his way toward the east wing where the guest suites were located.
A faint amber light spilled from the crack beneath Josephine’s door.
He didn't knock. He simply turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.
Josephine was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the window, a small medical kit open beside her. She was carefully unwrapping the gauze around her forearm to change the dressing on her stitches. The soft wool sweater she wore had one sleeve pushed up past her elbow, revealing the clean, tight suture line against her pale skin.
She didn't jump when the door opened. She didn't gasp. She simply paused, her hazel eyes lifting to meet his through the dark glass of the window reflection.
“Intruders usually knock, Mr. DeLuca,” she said quietly, her voice calm as a millpond.
“You aren't locked in,” Roman replied, closing the door softly behind him. He walked further into the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the hardwood floor. “And this is my house. I don't need an invitation to walk my own halls.”
“Even the private quarters of your employees at two in the morning?”
“Especially when my employees are hiding an entire tactical combat career behind a pair of orthopedic shoes and a flour-dusted apron,” Roman countered, stopping just three feet away from her.
Josephine finally lowered the gauze. She sighed, resting her hands flat on her knees. She didn't look defensive anymore; she looked bone-tired.
“I’m not hiding a career, Mr. DeLuca. I’m burying one,” she said softly.
“Mateo pulled your file. ‘The Sparrow.’ Private combat instructor for underground security syndicates in Philadelphia and Boston. Three years off the grid.” Roman stepped closer, his dark eyes burning down into hers. “Why did you stop running, Josephine? Or more importantly... who are you running from?”
For a long moment, the room was so quiet they could hear the distant hum of the estate’s generator.
Then, Josephine slowly lifted her head. The gentle, soft-faced nanny was gone. In her place sat a woman whose eyes held the cold, hard glint of tempered steel.
“If I tell you, Mr. DeLuca, your enemies become my enemies. And my enemies become yours,” she said, her voice dropping into a steady, unyielding register. “Are you prepared to invite that kind of fire into a house with two little boys?”
Roman stared at her.
He was a mafia boss. His entire life was built on fire, blood, and enemies waiting in the dark. He had spent four years believing he was untouchable, only to discover a traitor inside his inner circle and assassins in his children’s playroom.
He didn't fear fire. He was the fire.
“Try me,” Roman murmured, lowering himself slowly onto one knee until he was eye-level with her. The clean scent of vanilla and antiseptic wrapped around him, intoxicating and dangerously distracting. “Who are they, Josephine?”
Before she could answer, the encrypted emergency console on Roman’s wrist buzzed violently with a harsh, red flashing light.
PERIMETER BREACH. SECTOR FOUR.
Roman’s head snapped toward the window.
May you like
Down in the dark woods surrounding the estate, the motion sensors had just tripped.
The war had finally found them.
