I hated that part, because anger would have been easier if he had turned monstrous. Instead he just looked tired. Tired and frightened in a way men like Roman only ever were when they cared enough to lose something.
“I don’t know how to do this well,” he said.
“That’s obvious.”
I left that night and went to stay with my friend Mina Torres in Brooklyn.
Roman did not stop me.
That hurt more than it should have.
Mina asked very few questions, which is one reason I loved her. She made me tea, pushed extra blankets at me, and only said, “If the billionaire shows up with flowers, I reserve the right to judge his bouquet.”
He did not show up with flowers.
He did, however, leave two discreet protection details outside the clinic and one black SUV that “coincidentally” appeared near Mina’s block after dark.
I noticed.
I pretended not to.
For three days I lived inside an argument with a man who was no longer in the room.
Then the city moved first.
I was leaving the clinic just after seven, one gloved hand over my stomach against the February wind, when a black van rolled to the curb with unnerving precision.
The side door opened.
A hand clamped over my mouth.
By the time I managed to bite skin, I was already halfway inside.
The bag went over my head next.
When the hood came off, I was tied to a metal chair in an old ferry warehouse on Staten Island, the harbor wind pushing through broken panes and carrying salt, rust, and diesel into the dark.
Malcolm Voss stood in front of me in a camel coat that probably cost more than my yearly rent had.
“This is uglier than I’d usually arrange for a guest,” he said pleasantly, “but family tensions create such limited menus.”
“Kidnapping pregnant women now?” I said, because if terror was going to take me, it was going to have to compete with spite first. “That’s a bold brand strategy.”
His smile widened.
“So Roman told you about Helena.”
Not enough, I thought.
Before I could answer, heels clicked across the concrete.
Helena Blackwood emerged from the shadows in a cream coat, elegant as winter and just as merciless. She looked like the kind of woman who chaired museum boards and sent handwritten condolences on expensive paper.
“Patrick trained you well,” she said. “Even terrified, you still watch the room before you speak.”
“My father is alive.”
She tilted her head. “Alive is an ambitious word.”
Ice moved through me.
“What do you want?”
“The key,” Malcolm said. “And the box.”
I said nothing.
Helena crouched until her face was level with mine.
“The debt ledger was fiction,” she said almost kindly. “Your father found irregular transfers from foundation accounts to shell companies tied to Malcolm’s shipping network. He made the mistake of thinking evidence would save him. Instead it made you useful.”
I stared at her.
She smiled.
“I never expected Roman to marry you. That was improvisation, and I confess, I almost admired it.”
The room sharpened.
This was the real shape of it.
My father had not gambled away millions.
He had stumbled across rot big enough to kill for.
And Roman, in his rigid, infuriating way, had married me partly to keep Helena from reaching the evidence through me.
Before either of them could speak again, a metallic thud sounded at the loading entrance.
Then another.
Then the unmistakable tap of a cane on concrete.
Roman appeared in the doorway alone.
No overcoat. No visible body armor. Just black suit, black gloves, cane in one hand, and a gun in the other pointed low enough to look casual if you didn’t understand what casual violence looked like.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked exactly like the man people whispered about.
Not because he seemed monstrous.
Because he seemed certain.
“Let her go,” he said.
Malcolm laughed. “You brought a cane to a takeover.”
Roman’s eyes never left my face.
“I brought what was necessary.”
Helena rose. “You always were dramatic, Roman.”
“And you were always less clever than you believed.”
He lifted something in his left hand.
A brass key.
My breath caught.
“Safe-deposit key,” he said. “You wanted me here. I’m here. Let Sadie walk.”
Malcolm stepped closer to me and put a gun against the side of my head.
“Tempting,” he said. “But then I’d lose my only insurance.”
Something changed in Roman then. It was small. A tightening near the eyes. The last click of patience giving way.
“You misunderstand the room,” he said.
Warehouse lights exploded on overhead.
Voices shouted from the upper catwalks.
Federal agents poured in from both sides, jackets marked in yellow, weapons raised.
Theo Blackwood came in with them like a storm given a badge for the evening.
Malcolm swung toward the noise.
Helena did not.
Helena looked at Roman.
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