Chapter 4 - The Lion's Den
By nine o'clock the following morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the city under a low, slate-gray sky that threatened snow.
Vivienne was waiting in the lobby of The St. Jude when the glass doors swung open. It wasn't Lev who walked in, but Roman DeLuca himself.
He had shed the long wool overcoat for a tailored three-piece charcoal suit, the crisp white collar of his shirt framing a jaw that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. Every head in the lobby turned toward him—the desk clerk stood instantly straight, two men drinking coffee in the corner immediately lowered their newspapers—yet Roman acknowledged none of them. His gaze locked onto Vivienne the second he crossed the threshold.
He stopped two paces from her, sweeping his eyes over her simple outfit of dark jeans, boots, and an oversized knit sweater.
“You didn’t sleep,” Roman said. It wasn’t a question; it was an observation.
“Nathan broke into my apartment last night,” she answered without preamble, holding his gaze. “He called me. He said he left something on my kitchen counter.”
Roman’s expression did not change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. “Lev told me about the scout car that circled the alley at two in the morning. Nathan is becoming careless.”
“He’s not careless,” Vivienne said, stepping closer. “He’s arrogant. He thinks because his father donates to the governor’s campaign, the world is his personal sandbox.”
Roman tilted his head slightly. “And you think differently?”
“I know what he’s doing,” she said, unzipping her purse and pulling out the folded sheets of hotel stationery she had filled during the night. “You said he owes two million to the Morettis. Nathan doesn’t gamble, Mr. DeLuca. He embezzles. When he took that loan, he didn’t use it to pay off debts; he used it to cover a missing escrow account at Hale Financial before the federal audit next month.”
Roman looked down at the papers in her hand, then slowly reached out and took them. His fingers brushed against hers—warm and dry—sending an unexpected jolt of heat through her chest.
He unfolded the sheets, scanning her neat, precise handwriting. His gray eyes narrowed as he absorbed the account numbers, shell corporation names, and offshore bank routing codes she had memorized during the final months of her marriage.
“How do you know this?” Roman asked, looking up from the page.
“Nathan used to make me sign tax returns without letting me read them,” Vivienne said, her jaw tight. “He thought I was stupid because I have a degree in classical art restoration instead of finance. So while he was asleep, I took photos of his ledger books and spent months deciphering the balance sheets. I know where the money came from, and I know where it went.”
A slow, dangerous spark ignited in Roman’s eyes. It was the first time she had seen anything resembling genuine emotion on his face: sheer, predatory admiration.
“You didn’t just leave him,” Roman murmured. “You built an execution file.”
“I built an insurance policy,” she corrected. “In case he ever came after me. But the police didn't care about financial records during the divorce hearings. His lawyers buried it under five layers of non-disclosure agreements.”
Roman folded the papers neatly and slid them into his inner jacket pocket.
“The police are constrained by procedure,” Roman said calmly. “I am not.”
He gestured toward the front entrance. “Come with me, Miss Cross.”
“Where?”
“Your apartment,” Roman said. “We are going to collect your belongings. And we are going to see what Nathan left on your counter.”
Vivienne hesitated. “You don't need to come with me. Lev can—”
“Lev is an exceptional soldier,” Roman interrupted, his voice dropping into that smooth, commanding timbre that left no room for debate. “But Nathan Hale needs to understand whose shadow he stepped into last night. If he wants an audience, he will get one.”
Ten minutes later, Vivienne was seated in the leather interior of Roman’s Maybach as it navigated the slushy downtown streets. Roman sat beside her, reviewing documents on a slim tablet, his broad frame taking up enough space that his shoulder occasionally brushed hers whenever the car turned.
He didn't make small talk. He didn't offer hollow platitudes about how everything was going to be fine. Vivienne found herself strangely comforted by his silence. Nathan had always filled every quiet moment with criticism or noise; Roman possessed the terrifying calm of an ocean before a storm.
When the car pulled up outside her modest apartment building on 4th Street, Vivienne felt a knot tighten in her gut. The front glass door to the lobby had a fresh crack near the latch.
Lev stepped out first, clearing the entryway with quick, practiced efficiency before opening the door for Roman and Vivienne.
They took the stairs to the third floor in silence.
The door to Apartment 3B was slightly ajar. The brass deadbolt had been forced with a crowbar, splintering the wooden frame.
Roman raised a hand, stopping Vivienne on the landing. He drew a sleek black automatic from beneath his suit jacket with a motion so fluid it looked rehearsed, stepping into the apartment first. Lev followed behind him, his own weapon drawn.
Vivienne waited in the hallway, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“Clear,” Roman’s voice called out after a tense twenty seconds. “Miss Cross. Step inside.”
Vivienne stepped through the splintered doorway into her living room.
The space was completely wrecked. Her potted plants had been tipped over, potting soil ground into the rug. Her bookshelves had been cleared, volumes of art history torn and scattered across the floor.
And on the small kitchen island sat the reminder Nathan had promised.
It was an antique porcelain music box—a delicate, painted piece featuring a dancing ballerina that her mother had given her before she died. Nathan had taken it from the marital home during the divorce just to spite her.
Now, it was smashed into a dozen pieces. Resting atop the ceramic shards was a heavy black combat knife, pinning a handwritten note to the butcher block counter.
Roman approached the island, leaning over to read the note without touching the blade.
Vivienne didn't need to read it. She already knew what it said.
“He writes that by midnight tonight, you will be back at the estate,” Roman murmured, his voice deadly quiet. “Or the Moretti family will be given your location with permission to collect Nathan’s debt however they see fit.”
Vivienne looked around her destroyed apartment, the grief and fear suddenly twisting into a white-hot flare of rage. She walked over to the counter, pulled the heavy knife from the wood with both hands, and threw it across the room. It clattered loudly against the opposite wall.
“I’m done running,” she whispered, turning to face Roman. Her chest heaved, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “I spent two years looking over my shoulder. I spent two years hiding in tiny rooms, jumping every time a floorboard creaked. I am not going back to him. I would rather die in this room.”
Roman stared at her. The cold detachment in his gray eyes shattered, replaced by an intensity that made the breath catch in her throat. He walked toward her, closing the distance until he stood barely inches away.
“You are not going to die, Vivienne,” he said, his hand rising to gently, impossibly gently, tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm against her temple. “And you are never going to run from that coward again.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked, her voice trembling.
May you like
“Because tonight, Nathan Hale is going to discover what happens when you threaten something under my protection,” Roman replied softly. “Pack a bag. You are moving into the estate.”
***
