Chapter 2 - The Morning After the StormThe morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of the master suite, casting long, golden bars across the Persian rug. I woke up curled on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, stiff and sore, my muscles aching from the tension of the wedding day and the sudden, overwhelming exposure of my past.
Beside me, the bed was empty.
Cade—no, Roman. My mind kept slipping, exhausted by the sheer weight of reality. Roman was gone. The indentation on the opposite pillow was cold, suggesting he had been up for hours.
I sat up, pulling a heavy cashmere robe over my shoulders, and stepped out onto the private balcony overlooking the manicured lawns of the Long Island estate. Down below, security guards in dark suits patrolled the perimeter, their earpieces glinting in the morning light. Beyond the iron gates lay the private access road leading toward the city—the very road where Grant was likely sleeping off a hangover, blissfully unaware that the seal on his doom had just been signed.
A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door.
"Come in," I called out, turning away from the balcony.
The door opened, and a middle-aged woman with sharp, kind eyes and hair pulled back into a neat bun entered, carrying a silver tray laden with fresh fruit, black coffee, and a stack of legal documents.
"Good morning, Mrs. Caruso," she said, her voice smooth and practiced. "I am Mrs. Gable. Mr. Caruso asked me to bring you breakfast and these files."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," I said, walking over to the small sitting table. "Where is Roman?"
"He is in the underground shooting range with your brother, ma'am."
My blood ran cold. The coffee cup slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the saucer. "My brother? Grant is here?"
"Mr. Caruso’s men brought him in at six o'clock this morning," Mrs. Gable replied calmly, as if reporting the weather. "Mr. Moreno does not like to keep unfinished business waiting."
Without waiting to finish dressing properly, I threw off my robe, yanked on a pair of dark trousers and a thick wool sweater, and ran out of the bedroom. I didn't wait for the elevator; I practically flew down the grand curved staircase, ignoring the startled glances of the household staff, and headed toward the reinforced steel doors leading down to the basement firing range.
The heavy sound of gunfire echoed through the concrete corridors—crack, crack, crack—each shot landing with rhythmic, terrifying precision.
When I pushed open the heavy soundproof door, the acrid smell of gunpowder hit my throat like smoke.
Standing in the center of the concrete range was Roman. He wore a simple black t-shirt that clung to his broad back and shoulders, sweat glistening on his skin as he lowered a Sig Sauer pistol. Ten bullet holes were clustered in a tight, three-inch circle dead-center in the target's chest fifty yards away.
Ten feet to his left, tied securely to a metal chair with heavy nylon zip-ties, sat Grant Mercer.
My brother looked like a ghost. His expensive tuxedo from yesterday was wrinkled and stained with spilled bourbon, his hair uncombed, his face pale with a terror so absolute he looked like he might vomit.
"Evelyn!" Grant shrieked the moment he saw me stumbling through the doorway. "Evelyn, thank God! Tell your—tell this lunatic to let me go! He kidnapped me in my sleep! He’s insane!"
Roman didn't look at Grant. He slowly unloaded the magazine from his pistol, locked the slide back, and placed the weapon on the steel workbench. Then he turned his dark, unblinking eyes toward me.
"You shouldn't be down here, Evelyn," Roman said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "The noise is bad for your ears."
"Roman, what are you doing?" I demanded, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I stepped between my husband and my brother.
"I am having a family conversation," Roman replied smoothly, taking a step forward.
"This isn't a conversation, this is an execution setup!" Grant wailed, thrashing against the zip-ties. "Evelyn, you know how he is! He’s a monster! He’s going to kill me over some old business!"
I turned around, glaring down at the brother who had terrorized my childhood, broken my bones behind closed doors, and sold me into a mafia marriage to save his own skin.
"Shut up, Grant," I whispered.
The venom in my voice caught him completely off guard. Grant stopped thrashing, his wide, bloodshot eyes blinking up at me in disbelief.
"Evie... what?"
"I said, shut up," I repeated, my voice rising, steadying with every word. "For twenty-three years, I protected you. I took the beatings meant for the walls, I covered for your failures, I let you destroy our father's legacy, and when you finally ran out of options, you traded me like a sack of grain to a man you thought would torture me to death."
Grant swallowed hard, his lower lip trembling. "I... I had to. He was going to wipe us out—"
"And now you're finally going to pay for every single scar on my back," I finished coldly.
I turned back to Roman, meeting his intense, piercing gaze. "Don't kill him here, Roman. Not in your house. It's too clean for him."
May you like
A slow, dangerous smile finally touched the corner of Roman's lips.
"As you wish, wife," Roman murmured, stepping up beside me and placing a warm, heavy hand on the small of my back—right over the scars. "Mateo! Take Mr. Mercer down to the south docks. We have some cargo that needs unloading."
