Chapter 4 - The Ticking Clock
At 6:00 AM, the sun rose over D.C. like a bruised plum, casting long, purple shadows across the Potomac.
In the penthouse kitchen, Oliver and Finn were sitting on high stools, munching on toasted waffles I had made from the freezer stash. Kids are resilient; as long as there was syrup and warm milk, last night’s terrifying intrusion was already fading into a distant, bad dream.
"Josephine?" Finn mumbled, his mouth full of waffle, syrup dripping down his chin. "Are we going to the park today?"
"Not today, buddy," I said, leaning over to wipe his chin with a wet paper towel. "Today we’re having an indoor movie marathon right here."
"With popcorn?" Oliver asked, his bright blue eyes wide with hope.
"Extra butter," I promised, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
Roman walked into the kitchen wearing a fresh black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, corded muscle and a dark tattoo of a Celtic knot spiraling around his left wrist. He looked like a king preparing for war.
He handed me a small, clear glass vial containing a clear liquid and a digital scanner.
"What's this?" I asked, frowning.
"Biometric jammer," Roman said quietly, leaning against the counter while the boys were distracted by the TV in the living room. "Apply three drops to your wrist and collarbone. It disrupts infrared facial recognition cameras for twelve hours. If Clayton or Moreno’s men have hacked the city's traffic grid, they won't be able to track your heat signature."
I looked at the small bottle, amazed by the sheer level of military technology he possessed. "Where did a 'shipping magnate' get military-grade biometrics?"
Roman smiled—a brief, dark flash of white teeth. "My family didn't build a billion-dollar shipping empire by asking permission from local authorities, Maya. We move cargo. Sometimes cargo that governments prefer not to acknowledge."
"Daddy!" Finn called out from the couch. "Oliver took the remote!"
"Oliver," Roman’s deep voice echoed across the room with effortless authority. "Share with your brother."
"Yes, Daddy," Oliver instantly squeaked, handing the control back.
I couldn't help but smile. "You're very good at that."
"At parenting?" Roman asked, turning his dark gaze back to me. His expression softened, the hard lines around his eyes relaxing as he looked at me. "I was terrible at it before you came. For four years, I looked at them and only saw what I had lost. You taught them how to laugh again."
He stepped closer, his large hand coming up to touch the soft wool of my sweater, his fingers resting gently over my collarbone.
"And you taught me that I still have something worth protecting," he added softly.
Before I could answer, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, tapped the screen, and his jaw set into a hard, rigid line.
"It’s Clayton," Roman said, his voice instantly dropping back into ice. "He just pinged my private line. He’s standing in the lobby of my main corporate office on K Street. He says he has urgent documents regarding my late wife's estate that need my immediate signature."
"It's a trap," I warned, grabbing his arm. "He knows you're at the safehouse. He’s trying to draw you out into the open where Moreno’s sniper team can take you down."
"Of course it's a trap," Roman said coldly, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a sleek, matte-black automatic pistol. He checked the magazine with a sharp clack. "That's why I'm going."
May you like
"Roman, no!" I gasped, pulling on his forearm. "You can't just walk into a kill zone!"
"I’m not walking in alone, Maya," Roman said, turning to look at me with a fierce, brilliant fire in his eyes. "You're coming with me."
