Chapter 4 - Bloodline Ties
I spent the next twenty four hours in a state of suspended reality.
The master guest suite was larger than my entire apartment building. It featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty valley, a king-sized bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton, and a bathroom made of solid white marble.
A house staff member had brought me clean clothes—expensive cashmere sweaters and tailored pants that fit surprisingly well—along with a tray of hot soup and sourdough bread that I ate in complete, dazed silence.
At three in the afternoon on the second day, Frank knocked on my door.
"He's awake," Frank said simply. "He wants to see you."
My heart did a familiar, nervous flutter. I followed Frank down a long, carpeted gallery lined with oil paintings of stern-looking Italian men, stopping outside a heavy oak door monitored by two armed guards.
Inside, the room looked like a high-end ICU suite disguised as a luxury bedroom. Heart monitors hummed softly beside a massive four-poster bed.
Roman was sitting propped up against several pillows. His face was still pale, but the deadly blue tone had vanished, replaced by his natural bronze complexion. His chest was wrapped tightly in clean medical bandages, exposing his broad, tattooed shoulders.
When I stepped into the room, his dark eyes instantly snapped to mine.
"Nora," he said softly. His voice was raspy, but the iron command was back.
"You look remarkably alive for a man who took a knife to the ribs," I said, staying near the foot of the bed with my arms crossed over my cashmere sweater.
Roman motioned with his hand toward the leather chair beside him. "Sit."
I hesitated, then walked over and sat on the edge of the cushion. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck and stitched together by an aggressive nursing student," he murmured, a faint, genuine smirk playing on his lips.
"I could have used a stapler if I knew you were going to be ungrateful," I shot back.
Roman’s smirk faded into something deeper, more intense. He reached out his hand, resting his palm open on the white duvet between us.
"Frank told me what happened in the alley," Roman said quietly. "You drove my car. You got the keys off Marcus. You didn't run."
"I was too terrified to run," I admitted, looking down at his hand. His fingers were long, blunt-cut, crossed by small scars near the knuckles.
"You had the keys to an armored car and a gun in your bag," Roman noted softly. "You could have driven to Canada. Why did you bring me home?"
I looked up, meeting his intense, unblinking obsidian gaze. "Because you pushed me behind that dumpster before Marcus could pull the trigger. You saved my life first."
Roman stared at me for a long, silent moment. The heavy tension in the room shifted, warming into something thick and charged with unspoken heat.
"My brother Julian ordered the strike," Roman said suddenly, breaking the silence with cold, surgical precision.
I blinked. "Your own brother?"
"Half-brother," Roman corrected, his eyes turning to ice. "Our father left sixty percent of the family assets to me in his will, giving me sole veto power over syndicate operations. Julian has been selling narcotics through our shipping lines behind my back. When I threatened to strip his titles last week, he decided to cut the problem out at the root."
"What are you going to do?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"The syndicate board meets on Friday at the Grand Hotel for the annual budget allocation," Roman explained, leaning forward slightly despite the pain in his side. "Julian thinks I'm dead. Marcus was supposed to confirm the body yesterday morning."
May you like
Roman reached out and gently covered my hand with his. His skin was warm, firm, and grounding.
"He thinks he's walking into that ballroom to declare himself head of the Bianchi family," Roman whispered, his eyes burning with dark vengeance. "Instead, he's walking into his own execution."
