Chapter 8 - THE SOUTH END CONFRONTATION|
The rain had stopped, leaving Boston’s South End slick and gray.
Roman’s three-car convoy pulled up outside an unmarked social club on East Berkeley Street. Six heavily armed guards stepped out first, securing the sidewalk before Roman opened my door.
"Stay behind me," Roman whispered into my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Don't speak unless I ask you to."
"I don't hide behind men anymore," I said sharply.
A faint smirk touched Roman's lips. "Then stand beside me. Just don't get shot."
We stepped into the dim, cigar-smoke-filled club. Sitting at a round table surrounded by five armed thugs was Marco Moretti—a fat, balding man in his fifties with gold rings on every finger.
"Roman!" Marco called out, laughing loudly. "I didn't expect you in my territory today! Did you come to pay for your new girlfriend's broken windows?"
Roman didn't smile. He walked straight up to Marco's table, his hands casually in his pockets.
"The window belonged to Claire Harlow," Roman said coldly. "And the debt you think Miles owes you was settled last night."
Marco sneered, looking at me with slimy disgust. "Miles owes me two million dollars. His wife carries his name, so she carries his debt."
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"I carry my own name," I stepped forward, my voice ringing out clearly in the silent club. "And if you checked the provenance records of the three Italian Renaissance bronzes you bought last month, you'd know you're currently holding stolen property."
Marco froze. "What did you say?"
