Chapter 8 - Playing With Fire
The rain had turned into heavy, wet snow by the time the convoy of black SUVs reached the industrial district along Elm Street.
The storage facility was a sprawling labyrinth of corrugated metal units, concrete lanes, and flickering security floodlights surrounded by chain-link fences. It looked like a ghost town under the storm—until Vivienne saw the three black sedans idling near Unit 114.
“Down,” Roman ordered, his hand pressing firmly against her shoulder as he pushed her low against the leather seat of the Maybach.
Up ahead, through the tinted glass, Vivienne saw Nathan.
He was wearing an expensive shearling coat, but his right arm was strapped in a makeshift sling, his face pale and contorted with manic desperation. He was screaming at two men wearing heavy leather coats who were using an industrial bolt cutter on the padlocked door of Unit 114—her mother’s storage locker.
Beside the sedans stood Marco Moretti—a squat, silver-haired man in a tailored camel-hair coat, surrounded by four enforcers carrying submachine guns under their jackets.
“He hasn't opened it yet,” Vivienne whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “The master lock on that unit is an antique Corbin padlock. Bolt cutters won't crack it without the key; it’s solid manganese.”
Roman glanced at Lev in the front seat. “Block the exit gate. Nobody leaves this alley.”
“Copy that, boss,” Lev said, slamming the Maybach into gear.
The heavy armored vehicle accelerated with a roar, plowing directly through the facility's chain-link gate and skidding sideways across the snow-covered lane, blocking the only avenue of escape. Behind them, two more black SUVs slid into position, boxing in the Moretti sedans completely.
Men scattered, weapons clearing leather in a split second.
“DeLuca!” Marco Moretti’s voice rang out through the falling snow, rough and furious. “You’re out of your territory! This is East Side business!”
The door of the Maybach opened. Roman stepped out into the freezing slush, completely unhurried, buttoning his wool overcoat around his tailored suit as though he were arriving at an opera gala rather than an armed standoff.
Vivienne stepped out behind him, staying close to his shoulder.
Nathan’s head snapped toward her. When he saw Vivienne standing beside Roman—not as a captive, but as an equal, wearing Roman’s tactical coat over her shoulders—his face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated madness.
“Vivienne!” Nathan shrieked, his voice cracking. “You treacherous bitch! You gave him the numbers, didn't you? You gave him my ledger!”
“Shut up, Nathan,” she said, her voice carrying through the cold night with absolute clarity. She didn't shake. She didn't cower. The fear that had ruled her for two years seemed to vanish into the falling snow. “You never owned me. And you never owned what’s inside that locker.”
Marco Moretti held up a hand, silencing Nathan with a sharp glare before turning his attention to Roman.
“Roman,” Marco said, his tone shifting into smooth diplomacy. “The boy owes us two million. He says the cipher key inside that unit clears his debt and leaves enough on the table for everyone. We take the key, we walk away, and you can keep the girl. That’s good business.”
Roman walked forward four paces, stopping directly in the center of the lane. The snow fell softly over the barrel of the automatic resting casually in his right hand.
“There is no business here, Marco,” Roman said, his voice flat and deadly. “Nathan Hale broke into my city. He laid his hands on a woman who carries my personal protection. That is a blood debt.”
“She’s my wife!” Nathan screamed, stumbling out from behind the Moretti enforcers, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “You have no right to her! She belongs to me!”
“She divorced you two years ago,” Vivienne shouted back, stepping past Roman’s shoulder so Nathan could see her eyes. “I belonged to myself the day I walked out of your house, Nathan. You are nothing but a thief who hides behind his father’s checkbook.”
Nathan’s jaw twitched violently—the exact twitch she had feared for four years. But now, it looked pathetic. It looked small.
“Kill them!” Nathan barked at the Moretti men, completely losing his mind. “Shoot them both! I’ll pay double—four million! Just kill him!”
Nobody moved.
The Moretti enforcers looked at Roman, then at the twelve DeLuca soldiers who had emerged from the shadows of the surrounding units, their rifles raised in disciplined silence.
Marco Moretti let out a slow, heavy breath through his nose. He looked at Nathan as if he were an annoying insect.
“You’re an idiot, Hale,” Marco muttered.
Before Nathan could react, Marco drew a revolver from his coat and fired a single round directly into Nathan’s kneecap.
Nathan let out a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing into the wet snow, clutching his leg as crimson pooled across the white slush.
Marco lowered the gun and looked back at Roman. “The debt is settled. The Hale kid is yours to bury. We want no war with the DeLuca family over a spoiled rich boy.”
Marco signaled his men. They holstered their weapons, climbed back into two of their sedans, and backed slowly out of the lane, leaving Nathan sobbing in the snow beside the locked door of Unit 114.
The silence that followed was broken only by the whistling wind and Nathan’s pathetic whimpers.
Roman walked slowly over to the fallen man, towering over him like an angel of death. Nathan looked up through tears of agony, his face gray with shock.
“No one... no one will save you...” Nathan choked out, repeating the words he had whispered in the grocery lot, now sounding like the ravings of a broken lunatic.
Roman crouched down, resting his forearm on his knee, his gray eyes locking onto Nathan’s.
“She didn't need to be saved, Nathan,” Roman whispered, loud enough for Vivienne to hear every word. “She just needed someone to clear the room while she took her life back.”
May you like
Roman stood up, turned to Lev, and nodded toward the locked door. “Open the unit for Miss Cross. Let her take what is hers.”
***
