Chapter 7 - The River and the Bridge
By noon, the penthouse was completely empty of everything that didn't belong to Roman and his children.
The silk draperies Camille had chosen were still hanging, but they looked gray and dead against the noon light. The piano where Naomi had first stepped from the shadows was closed, its polished ebony lid reflecting the grey expanse of the lake outside.
Roman sat at the kitchen island, a cup of black coffee cooling beside his elbow.
Jack and Rosie sat across from him at the breakfast bar, eating bowls of oatmeal with real maple syrup and fresh blueberries—things Camille had forbidden as "unnecessary calories for undisciplined children." Jack was holding a pencil, sketching a crude, lopsided pirate ship on a legal pad, while Rosie was carefully feeding pieces of banana to Mr. Hop, whose torn ear Naomi had spent twenty minutes stitching back together with heavy white thread while they waited for the federal agents to clear the building.
The service elevator chime sounded.
Naomi walked in carrying a small leather suitcase and wearing her grey wool coat. Her apron was gone; she looked like any other traveler waiting for a cab on a Tuesday afternoon.
Roman stood up from the stool. He didn't offer her a check or a handshake. He simply walked around the island and stopped two feet away from her.
“The train to Minneapolis leaves at three,” Roman said. “The apartment near the university is ready. The lease is in your maiden name, and the account has enough to cover your tuition for three years without anyone tracing it back to the docks.”
Naomi adjusted the strap of her leather bag over her shoulder. Her expression remained unchanged—calm, observant, carrying the weight of a dozen secrets she would never tell.
“You don't need a housekeeper anymore, Roman,” she said softly. “You need a father.”
“My children don't want a fixer,” Roman said, looking over his shoulder at Jack, who was currently laughing at something Rosie had whispered to him—a real, unforced laugh that hadn't been heard in these rooms since Isabella died. “They want someone who knows how to make pancakes without a stopwatch.”
Naomi’s lips twitched into a faint, rare smile. “Four minutes, Roman. Exactly four minutes. If you boil them for four minutes and fifteen seconds, the yolk goes chalky.”
“I’ll remember,” he said.
She turned toward the private elevator, her boots clicking against the marble floor. Just before the doors slid open, she paused and looked back.
“Patrick Sloane is currently sitting in an interrogation room downtown trying to figure out why his lawyer is already on a plane to Nova Scotia,” Naomi said. “He’ll try to send someone by the end of the week. He still thinks this is about territory.”
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“Let him come,” Roman said, his voice level and cold as lake water. “The docks are closed.”
The elevator doors closed with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
