Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF SILENCEBy five in the morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the bay wrapped in a thick, grey blanket of sea fog that muffled the sound of the foghorns out near the channel markers.
We were sitting in the glass-enclosed breakfast nook overlooking the terrace, drinking black coffee—mine with two drops of lemon, just the way I liked it.
The phone on the wall console buzzed twice—a short, encrypted ping that meant a priority wire from the federal courts in downtown Baltimore.
Roman pressed the speaker button without taking his eyes off the harbor.
“Speak.”
“Mr. Calder,” came the crisp, professional voice of his chief legal counsel, Marcus Vance. “Elevance Sterling has formally resigned from the Port Authority board. His attorneys are currently attempting to negotiate a plea deal regarding the Cayman accounts, but the federal prosecutor’s office has indicated they’re not interested in terms until the subsidiary logs are turned over.”
“Give them the logs from nineteen-ninety-eight through two-thousand-and-six,” Roman said smoothly. “Keep the rest. We’ll need leverage for the rail line acquisition next month.”
“Understood, sir. And Miss Sterling?”
“Elevance can pick her up at the Coast Guard station as soon as her father posts bail,” Roman said, his voice dropping an imperceptible notch. “Tell her if she comes within five miles of the Rookery again, I won't use the courts. I’ll let the longshoremen handle her.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Calder.”
The line went dead with a soft click.
I set my ceramic cup down on the saucer. The porcelain made a tiny, crisp sound in the quiet room.
“Is it over?” I asked.
“The Sterling problem?” Roman leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic tattoo against the armrest. “Elevance is finished in this city. His company will be liquidated by Friday. By Monday, we’ll own their dockside warehouses.”
“And Evelyn?”
“She’s taking the morning train to her aunt’s farm in Vermont,” Roman said with absolute, emotionless finality. “She won't be back.”
I looked out the window at the grey water where a lone gaff-rigged fishing boat was cutting through the chop toward the fish markets.
“You’re very thorough, Roman.”
“In my business, loose threads don't stay loose for long,” he said. He reached across the table, his large, warm hand covering my bandaged fingers with a gentle pressure that defied everything I knew about the man. “Which brings us to the remaining thread.”
My pulse stuttered. “What thread?”
“You,” he said simply.
“I’m not a thread, Roman. I’m an employee who happens to be very good at making pastries.”
“You’re an employee who was kidnapped from a public street because a spoiled brat thought she could eliminate anyone who spent more time in my library than she did,” Roman said, his grey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it difficult to draw breath. “You’re staying here, Clara. Both of you.”
“Here? At the Rookery?”
“The Highlandtown duplex has been sold,” he said smoothly.
I stared at him, my jaw dropping. “You sold my apartment?”
“I bought the entire building three hours ago,” Roman corrected without a flicker of remorse. “The plumbing is fifty years old, the roof leaks every time the wind comes out of the northeast, and the neighborhood is full of people who don't know how to mind their own business. Caleb is moving into the east wing guest suite this afternoon. There’s a tutor starting on Monday, and the indoor pool is heated year-round.”
“Roman Calder, you can’t just—you can’t just buy my life because you’re mad someone tried to steal me!”
“I am not mad,” he said, though a dangerous, dark amusement flickered in the corners of his mouth. “I am efficient.”
Before I could think of a sufficiently devastating insult to hurl at him—preferably involving his ancestors, his shipping fleets, and his appalling lack of boundaries—the heavy oak door from the kitchen swung open.
Caleb stood on the threshold, wearing a brand-new grey hoodie that looked three sizes too big, holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin in one hand and staring in absolute awe at the crystal chandelier hanging over the breakfast table.
“Clara!” he shouted, dropping the muffin onto a silver tray and running across the marble floor to bury his face in my waist. “Mr. Calder’s guards gave me a pancake shaped like a shark!”
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I wrapped my good arm around his shoulders, burying my face in his soft brown hair, while my eyes met Roman’s across the rim of my coffee cup.
The billionaire didn't look away. He just raised his own cup in a silent, mocking toast.
