Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Hallway
That evening, the manor felt less like a home and more like a tomb.
Roman had insisted that Lily and I be moved from the staff quarters in the east wing to the master suite on the third floor—a heavily reinforced suite equipped with biometric door locks, bulletproof glass, and an independent air-filtration system. It was the only part of the estate completely isolated from the main staff corridors.
I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, watching Lily sleep. Curled up under a heavy goose-down duvet, she looked small, fragile, and entirely ordinary—nothing like the girl who had calmly commanded a mafia boss to jump for his life.
The door clicked open softly. Roman stepped in, holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a secure tablet device in the other. He had changed out of his blood-stained suit into a dark charcoal turtleneck and wool trousers, but the grim exhaustion etched around his eyes couldn't be concealed by a wardrobe change.
“She’s sleeping,” I murmured, not looking up as I gently stroked a soft curl away from Lily’s forehead.
“She’s safer here than anywhere else on the Eastern Seaboard,” Roman said quietly, walking over to place the mug on the bedside table before sitting down in an armchair nearby. He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders still tense. “I’ve locked Marcus and Julian in the lower holding cells beneath the wine cellar. My personal security detail—the men I brought up from the private security contractor in Zurich—are guarding the perimeter. No one gets in or out.”
I looked up at him, the fear that had been gnawing at my stomach all afternoon finally boiling over into anger.
“You keep saying they were loyal, Roman. You kept them close for eleven years. How did you miss it? How could men you trusted with your life try to kill you in your own courtyard?”
Roman sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to drain years of iron resolve from his frame.
“Power doesn't corrupt people, Clara. It reveals them,” he said, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the gas fireplace. “When you build an empire like mine, you surround yourself with hungry wolves because sheep can't protect the flock. But after a while, the wolves stop seeing the shepherd. They just look at the meat.”
“And what about us?” I asked, my voice dropping to a sharp whisper so as not to wake Lily. “We’re just domestic help. I clean your floors; my daughter plays with a broken toy car in your courtyard. Why was our name typed into their alibi before the crash even happened? Why drag us into your syndicate war?”
Roman turned his head, his dark eyes meeting mine with a heavy, unreadable intensity.
“Because they needed a narrative that I couldn't tear apart,” he said flatly. “If I died in that car, the board would have seized control within forty-eight hours. Marcus and Julian had already drafted the corporate restructuring documents. They needed an excuse for my distraction—something emotional, irrational, and completely human. A mother failing to watch her child in an active driveway is the oldest, cleanest excuse in the book. They didn't just want me dead, Clara. They wanted my legacy partitioned, and they needed a convenient scapegoat to take the blame so the police wouldn't dig into the corporate shell accounts.”
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I felt a chill run down my spine. “They were going to frame us. We would have ended up in prison—or worse.”
“Not on my watch,” Roman said, his voice hardening into steel once more. He stood up, walking over to the bed and looking down at Lily for a long, silent moment. “Nobody touches your daughter. Anyone who tries will learn why they used to call me the Ghost of Blackridge before I ever built this estate.”
