Chapter 9 - ROMAN CAME TO AMARA’S SCHOOL WITHOUT BODYGUARDS IN THE CLASSROOM
One year after the inhaler incident, Amara’s school held Career Day.
She came home with a form.
Guest occupation:
I assumed she wanted me.
Nursing student.
Widow.
Former housekeeper.
Apparently not.
“I asked Roman.”
I almost dropped the plate.
“You what?”
“He owns companies.”
“No.”
“He said ask you.”
Good.
At least he learned.
I called.
“You told my child maybe?”
“I said only if you approve.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then:
“Okay.”
That should have ended it.
Instead I felt guilty.
Annoying.
“Why did she ask you?”
“I think she wants to embarrass me.”
“Probably.”
“She said I can talk about logistics.”
That actually sounded useful.
“What security?”
“Outside school property unless administration requests.”
“No armed men in halls.”
“Yes.”
“No black convoy.”
A pause.
“Define convoy.”
“Roman.”
“One car.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
He came.
One SUV.
Luca driving.
No visible guards.
Roman wore a navy suit.
Amara had instructed him:
“Don’t look scary.”
Apparently navy solved crime.
He sat on a child-sized chair before twenty-three fourth-graders.
The teacher introduced him:
“Mr. Valente works in logistics and real estate.”
One boy immediately raised his hand.
“Are you mafia?”
I closed my eyes from the back of the room.
Roman said:
“My family has a criminal history.”
The teacher looked alarmed.
Children delighted.
“Did you shoot people?”
“No.”
“Did your family?”
“Some did.”
“What’s logistics?”
Excellent recovery.
Roman spent twenty minutes explaining how food, medicine, and supplies move through cities.
Ships.
Trucks.
Warehouses.
Routing.
He had them plan how to deliver ten thousand bottles of water after a storm.
Kids loved it.
Then Amara raised her hand.
I knew trouble.
“Yes?”
Roman asked.
“Why did you close businesses if they made money?”
The teacher froze.
Roman looked at me.
I shrugged.
Your problem.
He answered:
“Because making money does not make a business good.”
“What if people lost jobs?”
“Some did.”
“Then what?”
“We tried to move them into legal businesses.”
“Did all of them?”
“No.”
“Were they mad?”
“Yes.”
“Did you still do it?”
“Yes.”
Amara nodded.
Apparently acceptable.
Afterward, the teacher told me:
“He’s surprisingly good with children.”
I laughed.
“You sound disappointed.”
“No.”
Maybe a little.
Outside, Roman waited near the sidewalk.
“Did I pass?”
“Barely.”
“I was honest.”
“Too honest.”
“You told me to stop hiding things.”
“I did not tell you to explain organized crime to nine-year-olds.”
He smiled.
Then Amara ran out.
“Roman!”
She hugged him.
I froze.
So did he.
Amara had hugged Roman before? No.
First time.
He slowly put one arm around her.
Looked at me over her shoulder.
Question.
I nodded.
His face changed.
Small.
Almost painful.
Then she released him and ran to her friend.
Roman watched.
“She doesn’t understand what I am.”
“She understands enough.”
“No.”
He looked toward the school.
“She trusts me.”
“Yes.”
“That scares me.”
Good.
“It should.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because trust is responsibility.”
Roman nodded.
“Not permission.”
Exactly.
We stood.
Then he asked:
“Dinner?”
My heart shifted.
“For what?”
“A date.”
There it was.
No strategic ambiguity.
No mansion.
No rescue.
A date.
“I’m busy.”
“Another night.”
“That was not a scheduling answer.”
“I know.”
I hated that he understood.
I breathed.
“I’m scared.”
Roman’s face softened.
“Of me?”
“Some.”
Honest.
“Of what?”
“Your life.”
“Yes.”
“Your name.”
“Yes.”
“People assuming being near you means I belong to you.”
His jaw tightened.
“It doesn’t.”
“I know that intellectually.”
He waited.
I continued.
“And Michael.”
My husband.
Roman knew.
I had told him once.
“Feeling like moving forward means leaving him behind.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“I would never ask you to.”
“I know.”
Again.
Knowing is not feeling.
He nodded.
“Then no dinner.”
I stared.
“That easy?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
“But yes.”
He started toward the SUV.
“Roman.”
He turned.
“Coffee.”
His eyes changed.
“What?”
“Public place.”
“Yes.”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Fine.”
“No Luca sitting at next table.”
From twenty feet away Luca said:
“I have feelings.”
I laughed despite myself.
Roman looked betrayed.
“Apparently everyone is listening.”
“Your problem.”
Coffee became ninety minutes.
We talked about normal things.
Michael.
Roman’s father.
Nursing school.
Asthma.
Amara.
Whether deep-dish pizza was actual pizza.
Roman was wrong.
Obviously.
Then more coffee.
Dinner months later.
Slow.
Painfully slow.
Roman never showed up uninvited.
Never sent jewelry.
Flowers once.
He asked first.
I said yes.
Strange.
Amara knew before I officially told her.
Children.
“Are you dating Roman?”
“Maybe.”
“What does maybe mean?”
“Adults are complicated.”
“That’s what people say when they don’t want to answer.”
True.
She liked him.
That made it harder, not easier.
I refused to let her enthusiasm choose for me.
Roman understood.
One evening, after six months, he came to my apartment for dinner.
First time.
No security inside.
Luca somewhere outside, discreet.
Roman entered carrying wine.
I looked.
“Expensive?”
“No.”
“How expensive?”
He named the price.
I stared.
He sighed.
“I’m learning scale slowly.”
Amara laughed.
Dinner was messy.
Spaghetti.
Roman helped dishes.
Badly.
Amara interrogated him about scars.
He answered some.
Not others.
At 9:00, I walked him out.
He stopped.
“Can I kiss you?”
My heart pounded.
Not because Roman Valente was dangerous.
Because asking changed everything.
“Yes.”
He kissed me.
Gentle.
No ownership.
No movie music.
Then stepped back.
“Goodnight.”
“That’s it?”
He smiled.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Leave.”
He did.
I stood inside the door afterward laughing quietly.
May you like
For the first time in years, wanting someone did not feel like losing myself.
It felt like a question I was allowed to keep answering.
