Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT WIRE
The words hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot.
The hit is on Mrs. Caruso.
I stared at Marco, the blood draining completely from my face. My own brother—the man who had just walked me down the aisle of Saint Matthew’s Cathedral in front of two hundred witnesses, the brother who had supposedly handed me over as a peace offering—had already paid an executioner to put me in the ground.
“Are you certain of the routing numbers?” Roman asked, his voice deadly calm, though the muscles in his jaw twitched violently.
“Positive,” Marco replied, stepping further into the room and handing the folder to Roman. “Our cyber unit intercepted it ten minutes ago. The funds cleared at midnight. The hit squad is already in Westchester. They expect her to be vulnerable, thinking she’s isolated in enemy territory.”
Roman opened the folder, scanning the pages with blistering speed. Every trace of the sophisticated, composed wedding guest vanished, replaced by the terrifying aura of a man whose domain had just been violated.
He closed the folder with a sharp slap against his palm and turned his dark eyes back to me.
“He didn't give you to me as a peace offering,” Roman said, his voice a low, gravelly growl. “He gave you to me so I would take you out of his house. If you had stayed in Westchester, he would have had to explain why you had those scars, why you knew about his financial ruin, and why you were a threat to his control. By marrying you off to me, he made you my problem. And when you died here, on my estate, he planned to use your death to restart the war—with public sympathy on his side.”
The sheer, calculated evil of it made my knees buckle. I caught myself against the edge of the mahogany dresser, the cold wood biting into my palms.
“He’s a coward,” I whispered, my voice shaking with a rage I had kept buried for years. “He always has been. When our father beat us, Grant hid behind the library curtains. When our father died, Grant wept at the funeral while secretly looting the safes. He’s terrified that someone will find out he’s bankrupt.”
Roman didn't hesitate. He tossed the folder onto the bed, strode across the room, and grabbed his heavy wool overcoat from the valet stand.
“Marco,” Roman barked.
“Boss?”
“Double the perimeter guards on the estate. Activate the thermal cameras on the north ridge. Nobody enters or leaves this property without my direct authorization.”
“And the hit squad?” Marco asked, resting his hand on the Glock holstered beneath his suit jacket.
A dark, terrifying smile touched the corners of Roman’s mouth—a smile that held no warmth, only a promise of absolute destruction.
“Let them think they’re hunting a trapped lamb,” Roman said softly. “We’re going to show them what happens when they step onto Caruso ground.”
He turned back to me, shrugging into his coat. He stopped, his dark eyes searching my face. For a moment, the dangerous syndicate boss receded, leaving only a man looking at a woman who had survived hell.
“You,” Roman said, pointing a finger gently toward me. “Stay in this room. Lock the door behind me. Do not open it for anyone except me or Marco.”
“I’m not a helpless doll, Roman,” I flashed back, standing up straight, ignoring the lingering pain in my ribs. “I survived Arthur Mercer. I can handle a few hitmen.”
“This isn't about whether you can handle them,” Roman snapped, stepping close enough that I could smell the faint scent of cedar and gunpowder on his coat. “This is about the fact that you are now my wife. And nobody touches what is mine.”
Before I could retort, he turned sharply and strode out of the master suite, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. The double deadbolts slid into place from the outside.
I was locked in.
I paced the length of the luxurious bedroom, my mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. Ten million dollars. Grant didn't just want me dead; he was spending money he didn't even legally possess, betting everything on the assumption that Roman’s men wouldn't check the financial trails.
Then my eyes caught sight of something glinting on the bedside table.
It was a small, antique silver pocket watch resting on a velvet tray—Roman’s watch, left behind in his rush. Attached to the silver chain was a small, engraved brass key.
I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers.
Curiosity overrode caution. I walked across the room to the heavy mahogany writing desk against the far wall. Tucked beneath the desk’s decorative molding was a small, discreet keyhole.
I knelt down, slid the brass key into the lock, and turned it.
With a soft, pneumatic click, a hidden drawer sprang open.
Inside wasn't money, or weapons, or syndicate ledgers. It was a single, faded photograph and a handwritten journal bound in black leather.
May you like
I pulled the photograph out. My breath caught in my throat.
It was a picture of Roman as a young man, standing beside an older woman who looked remarkably like him—and standing right between them, smiling warmly, was my mother.
