Chapter 2 - The Platform at Union Station
By the time the Amtrak train screeched to a halt under the vaulted steel arches of D.C.’s Union Station, all three of Roman Vale’s sons were asleep.
It was a miracle born of sheer biological necessity and human touch. Jude and Leo were completely full, their faces flushed with warm, milk-drunk contentment, while little Ezra—the calmest of the triplets—had been nursed into a deep, restorative slumber right as the train crossed the Potomac River.
I was rebuttoning my blouse, my body exhausted but my soul lighter than it had been in months.
Roman sat across from me, holding a warm wet cloth he had prepared himself, carefully wiping a stray drop of milk from Jude’s cheek before placing him back into the triple stroller beside his brothers.
The privacy door slid open with a violent crack.
Vance stood in the threshold, his face grim, two other suit-clad men standing behind him on the narrow corridor of the train car.
"Roman," Vance said sharply. "Kincaid’s brother, Victor, is on the platform. He brought four vehicles and a crew. They know you missed the noon briefing at the Capitol Hill Club. Victor is saying you backed out of the harbor deal because you’re weak."
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't even hurry. He adjusted the soft blue blanket over his three sleeping sons with agonizing care, making sure the rain shield was secured over the stroller frame.
Then, he stood up.
The change in him was terrifying. The helpless father who had been begging his infant to eat vanished. In his place stood the king of Harbor Row. He buttoned his dark suit jacket, smoothed down his sleeves, and adjusted his collar. His expression turned into a sheet of polished granite.
"Mara," Roman said, turning his head toward me.
"Yes?" I asked, gathering my canvas tote bag.
"You’re coming with me."
I blinked, taking a step back. "What? No, Mr. Vale. I need to go back to the station lobby, buy a return ticket to New York with what’s left on my debit card, and—"
"You aren't taking a train back to Queens today," Roman said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. It wasn't cruel; it was a matter-of-fact declaration of reality. "My sons need to eat again in three hours. My private medical team is meeting us at my estate in Northern Virginia. Until Dr. Leland inspects my children and formulates a safe long-term feeding plan, you are not leaving my side."
"Mr. Vale, I have a daughter in New York!" I said, my voice rising. "I have a life!"
"I will fly your sister and your daughter to my estate on my private jet within two hours," Roman stated calmly, stepping closer to me. "They will be picked up from your apartment in a black car, flown first class, and housed in the guest wing of my home. You will be paid ten thousand dollars for every day you assist me."
My breath caught in my throat. Ten... thousand... dollars a day?
"Roman!" Vance interrupted urgently from the doorway. "Victor Kincaid is walking down the platform right now. We need to move the boys through the service elevator!"
Roman ignored Vance, keeping his eyes locked onto mine. "Mara. I don't ask twice. Do we have an agreement?"
I looked at the triple stroller. I thought of my sister sitting in our tiny Queens apartment with Lila, worrying about the electric bill. I thought of the seventy-three dollars in my checking account.
"Fly my daughter and Clara here safely," I said, my voice steadying. "And I want to see the flight confirmation before we leave the station."
A faint, almost imperceptible nod passed over Roman’s face. "Done."
He turned to his men. "Move out."
We stepped off the train into the freezing damp air of the station platform. The smell of diesel fumes and wet concrete hung heavy. Vance and three armed security guards formed a tight diamond wedge around Roman, me, and the triple stroller.
Before we reached the service doors, a group of five men in tailored dark overcoats stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, blocking the corridor.
The man in the center was broad-chested with silver hair, a thick golden signet ring on his pinky finger, and eyes as cold as dead fish.
Victor Kincaid.
"Roman!" Victor called out, his voice echoing loudly against the tiled station walls. He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "We waited two hours at the Capitol Hill Club! Silas thought you were dead! But look at you... strolling through Union Station like a suburban nanny!"
Victor’s eyes drifted toward the triple stroller, and then slowly moved to me.
A sickening smile curled the edge of Victor’s mouth. "So it's true. The great Roman Vale stopped the entire Mid-Atlantic logistics buyout because his dead wife's bastards wouldn't stop crying."
The air on the platform plummeted to absolute zero.
I saw Vance’s hand slide inside his jacket. I saw the two security guards beside him shift their weight, their eyes locking onto the targets in front of them.
Roman took two slow steps forward, stepping directly between Victor Kincaid and the stroller. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't raise his voice.
"Victor," Roman said quietly.
"You're soft, Vale," Victor sneered, taking a step closer. "Your wife dies in childbirth six weeks ago, and you lose your mind. You think you can hold onto the Baltimore ports while you’re wiping spit-up off your lapels? Silas is taking the docks on Monday. And there’s nothing you can—"
Roman moved.
It was so fast I didn't even see the transition.
Roman closed the six-foot gap in a fraction of a second, his left hand shooting out like a piston to grab Victor Kincaid by the throat, slamming the silver-haired man violently backward against a steel support pillar. The loud THUD of Victor’s spine hitting the steel echoed down the platform.
Victor’s four men instantly reached into their coats, but Vance and Roman’s guards already had four suppressed pistols drawn and aimed directly at their foreheads.
"Don't," Vance said softly to Kincaid’s men. "Move a finger, and you die on a train platform."
Roman leaned in close to Victor’s pale, gasping face. His voice was a razor-thin whisper that carried clearly to where I was standing.
"If you ever mention my wife again," Roman whispered, "I won't take your docks, Victor. I will take your family’s names off every building in this city. I will put your brother in a federal prison, and I will bury you so deep under the pier in Red Hook that not even the crabs will find you."
Victor clawed at Roman’s iron fingers, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple, his eyes filled with sudden, overwhelming terror.
Roman held him there for three endless seconds. Then, he released his grip.
Victor collapsed onto his knees on the wet platform, coughing violently, gasping for air.
Roman turned around, adjusted his cuffs, and walked back toward me and the stroller, his face completely calm, as if he had just dropped a letter in a mailbox.
"Vance," Roman said, walking past the coughing man on the ground. "Get the car."
"Yes, Boss," Vance replied, lowering his gun and motioning for us to follow.
Roman looked at me as we walked into the private freight elevator. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer against my ribs, my knuckles white as I held onto the handle of the stroller.
"Are you frightened, Mara?" Roman asked softly as the heavy steel doors slid shut.
I looked at him—at the ruthless man who had just nearly crushed a rival’s throat with one hand, and who had spent the last hour weeping quietly because his infant sons wouldn't eat.
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"No," I said, meeting his intense grey eyes. "I’m not scared of you, Mr. Vale. But if your jet isn't in the air for my daughter in twenty minutes, you’re going to be scared of me."
For the first time since I met him, the ghost of a real smile touched Roman Vale’s lips.
