Chapter 2 - Midnight in the East WingThe east wing of the Caruso estate was historically reserved for high-ranking capos and visiting syndicate leaders from Chicago and Boston, but tonight it served as a luxury holding cell for Grant Mercer.
The heavy oak door of the guest suite wasn't locked from the outside—Roman didn't need locks to keep people where he wanted them. He had simply stationed two armed guards in dark suits at either end of the hallway. When Roman and I walked down the carpeted corridor, the guards snapped to attention, their eyes flickering briefly to me before returning to rigid focus.
Roman pushed the door open without knocking.
The suite was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the sheer curtains. Grant was sprawled across the king-sized mattress, his expensive tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor, an empty bottle of single-malt scotch resting on the nightstand. He looked bloated, sweaty, and profoundly, pathetically weak.
"Grant," Roman called out, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a knife.
Grant groaned, rolling over clumsily and blinking against the sudden beam of light Roman flicked on via the wall switch. He squinted, sitting up on one elbow, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
"Roman?" Grant slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. "What the hell... where's Evelyn? Is this some middle-of-the-night tradition in your little kingdom?"
I stepped out from behind Roman’s broad shoulder, watching my brother with a cold, detached clarity I hadn't known I possessed.
Grant’s eyes widened slightly as he saw me standing beside his worst nightmare, fully dressed in a silk robe instead of sleeping in bridal compliance. Then he looked up at Roman, whose face was a mask of terrifying, frozen fury.
"You didn't mention the scars, Grant," Roman said quietly, walking toward the bed with slow, measured steps.
Grant’s face drained of color so fast it looked like someone had turned off his circulation. The drunken stupor vanished in a single heartbeat, replaced by the shivering, cowardly panic of a boy who knew he had crossed a line that had no return.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about," Grant stammered, scrambling backward on the mattress until his spine hit the carved wooden headboard. "It was an accident. A riding accident. She fell off a horse at our estate in Westchester five years ago—"
"A riding accident," Roman repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. He reached out, grabbing Grant by the collar of his silk dress shirt and hauling him off the bed with effortless strength.
Grant choked out a cry, his feet dangling six inches off the carpet as Roman hoisted him into the air.
"Roman, wait! We had a deal!" Grant shrieked, clawing frantically at Roman’s wrists. "The shipping lanes! The Manhattan warehouses! I signed over fifty-one percent of Hartwell Freight! You got what you wanted!"
"I wanted a wife," Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I wanted to break Arthur Mercer's legacy by taking his most precious asset. But you didn't give me a prize, Grant. You gave me a survivor."
Roman slammed Grant back down against the mahogany dresser, the impact rattling the crystal water pitcher and shattering a glass lamp. Grant collapsed into a heap on the floor, coughing violently, clutching his ribs.
I stepped forward, looking down at the man who had controlled my life, dictated my movements, and broken my skin for years.
"You told everyone I was fragile, Grant," I said softly, my voice echoing in the quiet room. "You told the doctors I was unstable. You told every suitor who came to the gate that I was too delicate to leave the grounds."
Grant looked up at me, his eyes wide with animal terror, spitting blood onto the Persian rug. "Evelyn... please. Tell him. We're family—"
"We stopped being family the day our father died and you locked me in the east wing," I interrupted.
Roman looked down at me, a silent question passing between us. He didn't need to ask permission; he was offering me the final strike.
"I don't want him dead, Roman," I said, meeting my husband's eyes. "Death is too easy for someone like Grant. It's quick. It's clean."
"What do you suggest, Evelyn?" Roman asked, his expression softening just a fraction as he looked at me.
"Strip him," I said flatly. "Take the shares. Take the warehouses. Take the Manhattan penthouse, the cars, the bank accounts, and the family name. Leave him with the clothes on his back and throw him out onto the curb of the Brooklyn docks before sunrise. Let him see what it feels like to have nothing when no one is there to protect him."
Grant let out a pathetic, whimpering sob. "You can't do that! I'm an Arthur Mercer heir! I run Hartwell Freight!"
"You ran Hartwell Freight," Roman corrected him coldly. He turned to the two guards waiting outside the door. "Get him out of my sight. Throw his bags on the driveway, and make sure he never steps foot in Westchester or Manhattan again. If he so much as breathes near a shipping container in this city, drop him in the East River."
As the guards hauled a screaming, thrashing Grant out of the room, the east wing fell silent once more.
Roman turned back to me, his broad shoulders relaxing slightly as he exhaled a long, slow breath. He reached out, gently taking my hand in his.
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"Well," Roman murmured, a faint, wry smile touching his mouth. "That certainly wasn't the wedding night I planned."
"No," I agreed, looking up at the man who had suddenly transformed from my captor into my shield. "It was much better."
