Chapter 5 - THE BALCONY TRAP
The gloved fingers bunched the heavy velvet fabric in a tight fist, ready to yank the curtain back and expose me.
My muscles tensed. I raised the silver letter opener, aiming blindly for the dark space where his throat would be behind the balaclava. It was a desperate, suicidal move, but I refused to die like a trapped animal in a room that wasn't even mine.
Suddenly, a heavy, muffled thud echoed from the dressing room across the suite.
The hitman’s hand froze on the curtain.
“What was that?” the second man hissed from the doorway.
“Check the closet,” the taller one muttered, letting go of the velvet drape and pivoting toward the dressing room with his rifle raised.
I let out a silent, shuddering breath, my fingers loosening slightly on the makeshift weapon.
They crept toward the dressing room door, stepping side-by-side.
Before they could cross the threshold, the floor-to-ceiling glass patio door beside me exploded inward.
Glass shards rained across the Persian rug as a dark, powerful figure vaulted over the shattered frame from the second-story balcony.
Roman.
He didn't shout. He didn't hesitate. He hit the floor rolling, his custom Sig Sauer clearing his holster with the lethal speed of a striking viper.
Pfft! Pfft!
Two suppressed shots cut through the air.
The second hitman took a round directly to the shoulder, spinning hard against the wall before collapsing to the floor, his rifle clattering across the wood.
The taller hitman whipped around, raising his assault rifle toward Roman, but Roman was already moving forward, closing the distance with terrifying velocity. He slammed the barrel of his pistol into the man’s temple with a sickening crunch. The mercenary went limp instantly, dropping like a stone.
Within four seconds, both professional killers were neutralized.
The silence rushed back into the room, broken only by the sound of Roman’s heavy breathing as he stood over the two unconscious men, checking their pulses with cold, practiced efficiency.
Slowly, Roman turned his head toward the velvet drapes.
“You can come out now, Evelyn,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “The room is clear.”
I pushed the heavy fabric aside and stepped out from behind the curtain, my wedding dress shimmering faintly in the moonlight amid the scattered glass.
Roman’s eyes swept over me, checking for any sign of injury. When he saw I was unharmed, the rigid tension in his shoulders dropped just a fraction, though his eyes remained blazing.
“I told you to stay put,” he said, stepping over a piece of broken glass.
“Your locks are terrible,” I shot back, holding my chin high to hide the adrenaline shaking my bones. “They picked them in under two minutes.”
Roman stared at me for a beat, then let out a dry, humorless breath that sounded almost like a chuckle. “Remind me to fire the estate’s security chief in the morning.”
He knelt down, searching the pockets of the unconscious hitmen. He pulled out a high-end encrypted burner phone and a small, gold-plated cufflink bearing a distinct, familiar monogram.
My eyes locked onto the cufflink.
“Do you know whose that is?” I asked, stepping closer.
Roman held it up to the moonlight, turning it over. The polished metal caught the silver beam, revealing the intertwined initials J.V.
“Julian Vance,” Roman said, his voice turning to ice. “Grant’s chief financial officer.”
“Not just his CFO,” I said, the revelation from the hidden journal suddenly fusing with the present night. “Julian is the one who handles the offshore accounts. He’s the one who wired the money to the Boston hit squad. And more importantly... Julian was my father’s accountant the night my mother died.”
Roman stood up slowly, pocketing the cufflink. The pieces of the puzzle weren't just falling into place; they were sharpening into a blade aimed straight at the Mercer empire.
“You found something in my desk,” Roman stated, not as a question, but as a certainty.
I didn't try to lie. I pointed toward the mahogany writing desk. “I found your mother’s journal. I found out why our families hate each other, Roman. It wasn't just a business war over unions and freight. My father murdered your mother because she was helping yours protect the deeds to the North River docks.”
Roman walked over to the desk, running a calloused hand over the wood where the hidden drawer was still slightly unlatched. He looked back at me, his eyes filled with a deep, ancient sorrow that he had carried for twenty years.
“My father died of a broken heart three months after she was killed,” Roman whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “He told me the Mercers were monsters who would destroy everything they touched. That’s why I swore I would tear them down to the foundation.”
He walked back over to me, stopping just inches away.
“And now,” Roman said softly, lifting his hand to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair away from my face, “your brother tried to kill you to keep that exact secret buried.”
Before I could answer, Roman’s burner phone buzzed violently in his hand.
He pulled it out. The screen flashed with an incoming text message from an unknown number.
Roman opened it.
I watched his face go completely, terrifyingly still as he read the words on the screen.
“What is it?” I asked.
May you like
Roman turned the screen toward me.
“You got the first wave, Caruso. But if you want to know where your sister Isabella is being kept, come to Pier 42 alone by sunrise. Otherwise, she bleeds out.”
