Chapter 2 - THE SHADOWS OF WESTCHESTER
The silence in the master bedroom of the Long Island estate became so heavy that the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway sounded like hammer blows.
Roman Caruso did not move. His tall, broad-shouldered frame remained rigid, his dark eyes locked onto the network of scars mapping my spine. The air between us felt electric, charged with a sudden, violent shift in gravity. The man who had entered this room intending to dominate, to inspect a conquered prize, had just been blindsided by a reality far darker than any syndicate war.
“Grant,” Roman repeated, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.
I pulled the torn edge of my wedding slip back over my shoulder, my fingers shaking despite the iron-willed composure I had spent a lifetime building. I turned around to face him, keeping my chin high. I refused to cower. I had survived Arthur Mercer’s iron fist and Grant’s sadistic outbursts; I would not crumble now.
“You thought I was pampered,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the room. “You thought my father’s precious daughter lived a life of silk sheets and designer gowns. Behind the gates of the Westchester mansion, Arthur Mercer was a monster to the city, but to me... he was just a man who looked the other way while his son practiced his cruelty.”
Roman stepped closer. For a second, a flicker of something dangerously raw crossed his face—not pity, but a cold, burning fury that belonged to an entirely different kind of predator.
“He traded you to me,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Grant walked into my office three weeks ago, handed over the shipping contracts, and offered you like a sacrificial lamb. He told me you were spoiled, ungrateful, and needed a firm hand to keep you in line.”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Of course he did. Because as long as you believed I was just another arrogant Mercer, you’d focus your vengeance on me. Meanwhile, Grant gets to walk away clean, keeping the remaining family fortune and our father’s offshore accounts.”
Roman’s jaw tightened. The veins in his neck strained against his collar. “When I asked for you, Evelyn, it wasn’t because I wanted to humiliate your father’s legacy. I wanted a hostage. I wanted the person Grant loved most in the world so he would feel the exact same agony I felt when your father’s men killed my brother in that warehouse.”
He stopped inches from me. He didn’t touch me. For the first time, his gaze was filled with a strange, turbulent confusion.
“But Grant didn’t care that you were coming to me,” Roman realized aloud, the pieces finally clicking together. “He didn’t try to negotiate. He didn’t hesitate. He practically packed your bags.”
“Because I wasn’t a hostage to him, Roman,” I whispered, tears finally stinging my eyes, though I refused to let them fall. “I was a liability. I knew too much about how our father died. And more importantly... I knew how Grant lost the family’s original shipping codes.”
Before Roman could answer, a sharp, frantic knocking echoed from the heavy oak door of the master suite.
Roman’s head snapped toward the sound. The vulnerability vanished, replaced instantly by the ruthless mafia boss.
“Enter,” Roman commanded.
The door swung open, and Marco, Roman’s most trusted lieutenant, stepped inside. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, holding a heavy manila folder against his chest.
“Boss,” Marco panted, casting a quick, wary glance at me before looking back at Roman. “We just intercepted an encrypted wire transfer originating from a Swiss account tied to Grant Mercer.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
“Ten million dollars,” Marco said grimly. “And it wasn't sent to an offshore shell. It was wired directly to an assassin group out of Boston. The target isn't you, Boss.”
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Marco looked straight at me.
“The hit is on Mrs. Caruso.”
