Chapter 2 - Scars and Secrets
The private master suite on the top floor of the Duca estate looked like something ripped straight out of a glossy, over-produced luxury bridal magazine. King-sized bed draped in heavy silk. Hundreds of white roses filling imported crystal vases. Ambient candle flicker casting long, dancing shadows across the crown molding. A massive picture window offering a panoramic view of the dark, restless Atlantic Ocean. A chilled bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon sitting quietly in a silver bucket beside two crystal flutes.
It was the ultimate picture of matrimonial bliss—deeply ruined by the fact that my new husband had someone else’s dried blood smeared across the collar of his custom silk shirt.
I stood near the edge of the plush rug, trembling slightly despite my best efforts to look defiant, wrapping my arms tightly around my waist.
Roman closed the heavy oak bedroom door behind us, threw a heavy deadbolt, and dropped the security latch into place. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning every corner of the room before finally resting on me.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
“Not my blood,” I muttered, throwing his earlier words right back at him.
“That’s supposed to make you feel better?”
“No.”
He noticed the steady drip of crimson from my palm where the champagne glass had lacerated my skin during the opening seconds of the attack. Without another word, he crossed the room, opened a mahogany medical kit tucked inside the vanity drawer, and pulled out a roll of sterile gauze and a pair of surgical tweezers.
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the edge of the velvet bench.
“It’s just a scratch, Roman. I’ve stitched up worse dresses.”
“Clara. Sit down.”
I sat down, mostly because my knees were suddenly shaking so violently I couldn’t trust them to hold my weight any longer.
Roman crouched down on one knee directly in front of me. His large, calloused hands—hands that had signed death warrants and orchestrated dock strikes—were astonishingly gentle as he picked microscopic shards of crystal out of my palm. The contrast between his terrifying reputation and the careful, almost tender way he treated my wound sent a strange, confusing shiver down my spine.
“You expect me to just trust you now?” I whispered, staring down at the dark crown of his head as he worked.
“No.”
“At least we agree on something.”
He finished cleaning the wound and expertly wrapped white gauze around my palm, tying off the knot with practiced efficiency.
As he began to pack the medical supplies away, I couldn’t hold back the crushing weight of questions pressing against my skull any longer.
“What did my father really do, Roman?” I asked, my voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Twelve million dollars doesn’t just disappear into normal business debts. What was he mixed up in?”
Roman’s hands stopped moving inside the metal box. He didn't look up.
“Not tonight, Clara.”
“People just shot up our wedding, Roman! Men are dead downstairs, the house is burning, and you locked us in a fortified tower suite. If not tonight, when?”
Before he could formulate a response, the heavy glass doors leading out to the private seaside balcony exploded inward with a deafening crash.
Glass rained across the carpet like lethal confetti.
A dark-clad figure vaulted over the stone balustrade, rolling dynamically across the floor with a suppressed submachine gun raised. A second attacker followed immediately behind him, boots crunching on the broken glass.
Roman moved faster than I ever thought physically possible for a human being.
The first intruder lunged forward, his heavy tactical vest brushing past me as he reached out to grab a handful of my torn wedding dress. Fabric ripped loudly down my back, exposing my shoulder to the cold night air as I stumbled backward and crashed hard against the heavy wooden wardrobe.
Roman didn’t hesitate. He slammed his body into the first attacker with the force of a freight train, driving the man chest-first into the reinforced plaster wall until a sickening crack echoed through the room.
The second intruder swung his weapon upward, aiming straight for Roman’s chest.
I screamed, our eyes locking for a fraction of a second.
Roman twisted his body mid-motion, throwing himself directly between the barrel of the gun and my body. A muted thwack sounded as a bullet buried itself deep into the drywall just inches from my head, showering us in white dust.
At the same time, a stray candle overturned by the scuffle caught the edge of the heavy velvet drapery. Orange flames immediately licked upward, greedily climbing toward the high wooden ceiling beams.
Roman drew his sidearm and fired twice with terrifying precision.
Both rounds found their mark. The second intruder dropped his weapon, stumbled backward, and collapsed motionless onto the ruined balcony threshold.
Silence fell over the suite once again, broken only by the crackle of the spreading fire and the ragged, heavy breathing of my husband.
The surviving attacker on the floor groaned, shifting weakly before going completely still.
I stood there against the wardrobe, trembling from head to toe, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. With shaking hands, I pulled the ragged remains of my torn wedding dress up over my shoulder to cover myself.
Roman turned away from the fallen intruder, his dark eyes sweeping the room to ensure no other threats remained.
May you like
Then, his gaze locked onto my exposed left shoulder.
And he completely stopped breathing.
