Chapter 4 - The Lion's Fortress
Roman carried Maya through the towering double doors of the mansion as if she weighed nothing at all. Warmth, vanilla, and old wood instantly chased away the freezing rain, but Maya’s heart continued to race.
“Put me down, Mr. DeLuca, please,” she stammered, conscious of the puddle forming on the pristine Italian marble from her soaked clothes. “I’m ruining your floors.”
Roman didn’t even look down at the floor. He carried her past two stunned security guards straight into his private library—a room even Elena rarely entered. He set Maya gently onto a deep leather armchair before a roaring hearth, grabbing a thick cashmere throw from the sofa and wrapping it around her trembling shoulders.
“Marco,” Roman commanded without turning around.
The head guard appeared silently in the doorway. “Boss?”
“Lock down the outer perimeter. Double the patrols on the south gate. Nobody enters or leaves without my personal thumbprint.”
“Yes, Don Roman.” Marco vanished, closing the heavy doors behind him.
Roman walked over to a crystal decanter, poured two fingers of amber bourbon, and held the glass out to Maya. “Drink. Your lips are blue.”
Maya took the glass with shaking fingers, taking a tiny sip. The liquid burned down her throat, but the fiery heat immediately grounded her spinning thoughts.
Roman stood before the fire, watching her with predatory intensity. “You told me you’d be back at eight in the morning. You arrived at ten at night in a panic, checking the rearview mirror like a hunted deer. Who was outside your apartment?”
Maya looked down at the frayed hem of the cashmere blanket. The urge to confess everything was overwhelming, but Aaron’s threat echoed in her ears: Who do you think he’ll believe?
“Just... an aggressive debt collector,” she lied, hating how frail her voice sounded. “My ex-husband’s old creditors. They tracked down my address. I felt unsafe staying there.”
Roman’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his sharp cheekbone. “They threatened you?”
“They just knocked on the door. Demanded money I don't have.” Maya clutched the duffel bag resting at her feet, inside which lay the shoebox of mysterious cash. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Roman knelt before her. The sudden proximity took Maya’s breath away. Up close, she could see the faint silver scar running along the side of his neck and the utter certainty in his steel-gray eyes.
“You are under my roof now,” Roman said softly, each word carrying absolute authority. “The DeLuca name protects everything within these walls. The people who lent your ex-husband money will never touch you again. Do you understand me?”
Maya nodded slowly, a lump forming in her throat. “Thank you, Mr. DeLuca.”
“Roman,” he corrected her quietly. “When we are in this room, call me Roman.”
Before Maya could process the intimacy of the command, a soft knock came at the door. An elderly man with a silver beard and a leather medical bag entered.
“Dr. Mercer,” Roman stood up, retreating to the edge of the firelight. “Examine her knee. Tell me what needs to be done.”
For the next twenty minutes, the doctor gently examined Maya’s joint. He manipulated the bone, checked her reflexes, and frowned as his thumbs pressed against the torn cartilage.
“Severe collateral ligament damage, compounded by an improperly healed hairline fracture,” Dr. Mercer announced, writing in a notepad. “It’s remarkable she can walk at all, let alone spend hours scrubbing floors. She needs minor arthroscopic surgery and intensive physical therapy. Without it, she’ll be in a wheelchair within five years.”
Maya’s stomach dropped. “Surgery? I can’t afford—”
“The surgery will be scheduled for next Tuesday at my private clinic,” Roman interrupted without hesitation. “Dr. Mercer will handle the procedure himself.”
“Roman, that’s thousands of dollars,” Maya protested, looking at him with wide eyes.
“It’s already handled,” he dismissed her objections with a flick of his wrist. “Go up to the third floor. Elena’s maid prepared the suite beside hers. Rest, Maya. Tomorrow, your new life begins.”
Exhausted, Maya was guided upstairs to a bedroom that looked like something out of a fairytale—plush ivory carpets, a king-sized bed draped in silk, and a private bath with steaming water.
She took a hot shower, washed the city grime from her skin, and curled beneath the heavy duvet. For the first time in three years, she felt safe.
Yet, three floors below, in the dark confines of his study, Roman DeLuca picked up his encrypted satellite phone.
“Marco,” Roman’s voice was devoid of warmth, replaced by the terrifying chill of an executioner. “Pull the city surveillance cameras around Maya Turner’s rooming house between eight and ten tonight. Find the man who knocked on her door. Bring him to the warehouse.”
May you like
Roman leaned back into the shadows, his eyes burning with lethal intent.
“Nobody terrorizes what belongs to me.”
