Chapter 2 - The Mask Comes Off
The rain had turned into a downpour by the time Roman’s tactical team cleared the inner courtyard of the Valenti estate.
It was a fortress built into the side of the limestone cliffs overlooking the ocean—three-foot-thick stone walls, bulletproof glass, and a private garrison of fifty elite guards. Yet, tonight, the silence hanging over the courtyard was heavy and sickening.
"Three guards dead at the gate, Boss," Dante reported, stepping up to the SUV as Roman ushered Aurelia out into the cold night air. "Executed with silenced weapons. Professional. No alarms were tripped on the primary grid. Whoever did this had high-level clearance."
"Inside. Now," Roman commanded, his arm wrapped firmly around Aurelia’s waist, holding her close to his body.
They moved quickly through the vast, vaulted marble foyer of the estate. The servants had been locked in the lower staff quarters for their protection, and the lights were dimmed to tactical red.
Roman led Aurelia up the winding grand staircase to his private master suite—a massive, high-security wing accessible only by biometric clearance.
He slammed the heavy steel-reinforced oak doors shut behind them, locking the triple bolts with a heavy mechanical thud.
The silence of the master bedroom settled over them. A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, casting long, amber shadows across the dark leather furniture, the massive king bed, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the raging sea below.
Roman turned to face her.
Aurelia stood near the hearth, shivering violently. Her torn wedding dress was heavy with rain and mud, clinging to her thin frame. She looked tiny in the middle of his vast room, like a stray cat dragged in from the storm.
"The bathroom is through there," Roman said, pointing to a door on the left. "Hot water. Clean towels. Wash that grease off your face."
Aurelia didn't move. She held her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, staring at the polished hardwood floor. "Roman... if Marcus Moretti knows I’m alive, he won't stop. He spent twelve years building his empire on the land he stole from my family. If the Commission finds out the DeLuca heiress lives, his claim to the northern ports is illegal. He will burn this entire city to kill me."
"Then let him try," Roman said coldly. He walked over to a cedar wardrobe, pulled out a heavy silk robe and a pair of trousers, and tossed them onto the bed. "Wash, Aurelia. We don't talk strategy while you're bleeding on my carpet."
Aurelia looked up at him, her hazel eyes blazing with sudden, fiery pride. "I am not a victim to be ordered around, Roman! I survived twelve years on the streets alone! I don't need your pity!"
Roman stepped forward instantly, closing the distance between them until he was looming over her. His hand shot out, cupping the back of her neck, his thumb resting over her pulse point. Her heart was racing like a trapped bird's, but she didn't back down. She stared straight into his dark, lethal eyes.
"I don't give pity," Roman growled, his thumb gently wiping a smudge of black soot from her cheekbone. "Pity is for the weak. I am giving my wife a hot shower because if we are going to war with the Moretti family tonight, I need you focused. Now move."
Aurelia held his stare for three long seconds. Then, with a subtle clench of her jaw, she pulled away and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
Twenty minutes later, the sound of running water stopped.
The bathroom door creaked open, and thick white steam rolled out into the bedroom.
Roman was sitting at his mahogany desk, pouring two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass, when he turned his head.
The breath left his lungs.
The dirt, soot, and dark stain she had used to disfigure her skin for twelve years were completely gone. The stooped, awkward posture of "ugly Clara" had vanished.
Standing in the doorway was Aurelia DeLuca.
Her hair, damp and dark reddish-brown, fell in soft waves past her shoulders. Her skin was smooth, pale as ivory, contrasting sharply with the deep hazel of her eyes and the high, regal line of her cheekbones. She wore the dark silk robe Roman had given her; it was far too big for her thin frame, folded over her waist and tied tight with the sash, exposing the delicate hollow of her throat and her long, elegant neck.
She was not just plain. She was not awkward.
She was breathtaking—a dangerous, aristocratic beauty that belonged on a throne.
Roman slowly set his glass down on the desk. He stood up, his tall, broad frame casting a long shadow across the room as he walked toward her.
Aurelia stood her ground, though her chin trembled slightly as his dark eyes scanned every inch of her revealed face.
"Clara was a good mask," Roman murmured, stopping two feet away from her. "If the men who mocked you in town saw you now, they’d tear their own eyes out."
"Beauty is a target in our world, Roman," Aurelia whispered, her voice soft, lacking the harsh street rasps she had cultivated for years. "You know that better than anyone."
"Who raised you after the fire?" Roman asked softly, his hand rising to touch a strand of her damp hair, wrapping it gently around his finger. "Who taught you how to hide?"
Aurelia looked down at her hands. "An old soldier named Matteo. He was my father's driver. He pulled me out of the cellar before the roof collapsed. He took me to the slums, taught me how to blend into the dirt, how to use a knife, how to disappear. He died three months ago of consumption."
"And on his deathbed, he told you to come to me," Roman guessed.
"He told me that Roman Valenti was ruthless, violent, and unyielding," Aurelia said, looking back up into his eyes. "But he also said you were the only man in the five families who honored his father's oaths. My father and your father signed a blood pact when we were children. We were promised to each other, Roman. Before the fire."
Roman’s eyes darkened. "I remembered the pact. That's why I never looked at another woman."
Aurelia’s breath hitched. "What?"
Before Roman could answer, a sharp, heavy knock rattled the master suite door.
"Boss!" Dante’s urgent voice came through the intercom speaker. "We’ve got a situation in the main courtyard! Consigliere Hector has arrived with twenty armed men! He’s demanding to enter the estate!"
Aurelia’s face drained of color. She grabbed Roman’s forearm, her fingernails digging through his dress shirt.
"Hector," she whispered in terror. "Uncle Hector."
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Roman looked down at her hand on his arm. "What about him?"
"The night of the fire," Aurelia choked out, her voice filled with pure venom. "The man who unlocked the iron gates for the Moretti hit squad... he wore a signet ring with a black sapphire. The Valenti Consigliere ring. It was Hector, Roman. Your uncle sold my family."
