Chapter 6 - Shadows on Park Avenue
The penthouse on the sixty-eighth floor overlooking Central Park was dead silent except for the low crackle of a gas fireplace.
Tessa sat on an oversized white linen sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket, holding a steaming mug of black tea between trembling hands.
The adrenaline that had sustained her through the docks was finally receding, leaving her limbs feeling leaden and hollow.
The private physician Roman had summoned had already treated Owen Arden in the guest suite, confirming the boy suffered only cracked ribs and severe bruising.
He was sleeping soundly under heavy sedation.
In the adjoining library, Celeste sat in a wingback chair, her face buried in her hands, weeping with quiet, exhausting relief.
Roman stepped into the living room, wearing a fresh charcoal shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a glass, walked over, and set it on the marble table beside Tessa.
"Drink it," he said gently. "It will burn the shock out of your throat."
Tessa shook her head, keeping both hands wrapped around her tea mug.
"I don't drink while I'm still trying to process whether I’m going to prison."
Roman sat in the leather armchair opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees.
"No one is going to prison, Tessa. Except Vance. The federal warrants were unsealed twenty minutes ago. His entire syndicate is collapsing like a house of dry cards as we speak."
Tessa looked around the lavish, minimalist penthouse.
Modern art hung on pristine white walls; floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline blanketed in white snow.
It looked entirely untouchable.
Yet underneath all this marble and silk lay violence, betrayal, and blood.
"What happens to Celeste?" Tessa asked quietly.
Roman’s jaw tightened slightly.
"She gets a trust fund sufficient to put Owen through college and secure a quiet house in Vermont. But she never sets foot in New York again, and she never contacts me. She made her choice."
"She was trying to save her brother," Tessa pointed out.
"By condemning me to death," Roman replied evenly. "Loyalty that only functions when conditions are comfortable isn't loyalty, Miss Callahan. It’s convenience."
He leaned back, studying her across the low table.
"You, on the other hand, had nothing to gain tonight. You were making twenty dollars an hour carrying trays. You could have turned your back, walked into the kitchen, and let Vance’s men empty three clips into my chest."
"I told you," Tessa said, looking into the dancing flames of the fireplace. "I've seen what men like Vance do to decent families. My father fought guys like that his whole life. If I let them kill you in cold blood, I would have been spitting on his grave."
Roman was silent for a moment.
When he spoke again, the ruthless edge had disappeared from his voice, replaced by something deep, resonant, and entirely unexpected.
"Your sister, Clara," Roman said.
Tessa snapped her head up, her eyes flashing with defensive fury. "Leave Clara out of this!"
"Her medical debts at the Boston Neurological Institute were paid in full three hours ago," Roman continued calmly. "All eight hundred and forty thousand dollars. She was moved to the private wing on the seventh floor at midnight."
Tessa’s breath caught in her throat.
The room seemed to tilt.
May you like
"What did you do?" she whispered, tears suddenly stinging the corners of her eyes.
"I pay my debts, Tessa," Roman said, his dark eyes never wavering. "You saved my life tonight. A folded receipt was worth eighty-four cents. What you gave me was worth far more than eight hundred thousand dollars."
