Chapter 6 - Skeletons in the Concrete
The retaliation came less than forty-eight hours later, swift and merciless.
Evelyn was in the library of Ironwood, working alongside Roman’s financial analysts to systematically unravel Damian’s shell companies, when the first alert sounded. A high-pitched warble echoed through the estate’s intercom system, followed by the sudden thrum of industrial steel shutters sliding down over every window on the ground floor.
Roman entered the library within seconds, his jacket discarded, a tactical sidearm holstered at his chest.
"Stay away from the perimeter," Roman ordered, checking the feeds on the wall monitors.
"What’s happening?" Evelyn asked, rising from her desk.
"Damian’s creditors called in his margin loans this morning after the museum footage went viral," Roman explained, his eyes scanning eight different security camera angles showing the perimeter fence. "His offshore accounts have been frozen by federal magistrates. He has nothing left to lose. He hired an unregistered mercenary cell from the docks. They just breached the south gate."
Through the infrared camera feeds, Evelyn saw three black tactical vans plowing through the wrought-iron gates. Men in body armor carrying automatic rifles poured onto the gravel driveway.
"He came here himself?" she whispered, horror gripping her chest.
"Damian doesn't fight his own battles," Roman said coldly. "He sent butchers to burn the estate and retrieve you before the federal warrants are executed at dawn. Lev! Suppressive fire on the courtyard. Seal the lower tunnels."
The house shook as gunfire erupted outside. The hollow *thump-thump-thump* of high-caliber rifles echoed through the thick stone walls. Evelyn had never heard real combat; the sound was deafening, primal, and terrifying.
"Come," Roman said, taking her hand. His grip was entirely different from Damian’s—it was protective, an anchor in the storm. He pulled her toward the central panic corridor behind the library fireplace.
Before they could reach the reinforced steel door, the exterior terrace doors of the library shattered in an explosion of safety glass and flashbang grenades.
The concussive blast threw Evelyn to the floor, her ears ringing with high-pitched agony, her vision white with blinding smoke. Through the haze, two armed figures in black balaclavas charged into the room.
Roman reacted with terrifying speed. He drew his weapon and fired twice with lethal precision. The first intruder dropped instantly. The second managed to fire a short burst that ricocheted wildly off the mahogany shelving, sending splinters of wood flying across the room.
Roman closed the distance in a single stride, knocking the barrel aside, his combat knife flashing in the dim light. In three seconds, the threat was neutralized with ruthless, mechanical efficiency.
Evelyn stared at the fallen men, her breathing shallow, her hands shaking violently. For the first time, she saw the reality of the underworld Roman commanded. He was not merely a wealthy financier who lived in a fortress; he was a warlord who had survived decades of bloodshed.
Roman turned to her, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes wide with adrenaline. "Are you hit?"
"No," she gasped, struggling to her feet. "Roman... your shoulder."
A dark, wet stain was spreading rapidly across the gray wool of his sleeve where a ricochet had torn through the fabric.
"It’s nothing," he said, barely glancing at the wound. He grabbed her arm gently, pulling her into the hidden panic chamber and slamming the steel door shut behind them.
The room was small, lit by emergency red bulbs, lined with communication equipment and emergency medical packs. The sounds of combat outside were muffled into distant thuds.
"Sit," Evelyn commanded, the shock in her system suddenly converting into sharp, focused action. "Sit down, Roman!"
He looked surprised by her tone, but complied, sinking onto the bench along the wall.
Evelyn ripped open an emergency trauma kit with her teeth, pulling out surgical shears, antiseptic, and gauze. Her hands, which had trembled for years under Damian’s scrutiny, were suddenly rock-steady. She cut away the ruined wool, exposing a deep graze along his deltoid muscle.
"You don't need to do this," Roman murmured, his voice tight as she poured antiseptic over the wound.
"Shut up," Evelyn said, wiping away the blood with clean cotton. "You took a bullet because you were standing between me and Damian's hired killers. The least I can do is bandage the damage."
Roman watched her face as she worked. Her brows were knit in fierce concentration, a lock of dark hair falling over her cheek. She was millimeters away from him, her breath warm against his skin. For the first time since they had met, the calculated distance between them vanished.
"You’re stronger than you think, Evelyn," Roman said softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the ventilation.
"I spent three years thinking I was weak because I couldn't make him stop," she replied, taping down the sterile pressure pad with firm precision. "I thought if I was smarter, prettier, quieter, he wouldn't hit me. It took seeing you bleed to realize that monsters don't hurt people because of who their victims are. They hurt people because they enjoy the power."
Roman raised his uninjured hand, his fingertips hovering just above her cheek, waiting for her silent permission. Evelyn didn't pull away. His calloused thumb gently traced the fading bruise on her cheekbone.
"Damian Crow will never touch you again," Roman vowed, his voice thick with a dark, sacred promise. "Not in this life, and not in the next."
May you like
Evelyn looked into his eyes, seeing no deceit, no manipulation, only an unshakeable fortress of protection. She leaned her cheek slightly into his palm, feeling the steady heat of his skin, and for the first time in years, she felt entirely safe.
***
