“Understood.”
I drag a hand across my jaw while staring at the blood-stained napkin Enzo left behind on the table. For the first time since Clara died, the same brutal fury rides beneath my skin because power creates influence, fear creates obedience, and money builds walls around the people you love, yet none of it guarantees their safety.
Roman’s mansion sits hidden behind wrought-iron gates and centuries-old live oaks draped in Spanish moss, the property tucked far enough from the riverfront traffic that the city noise fades to little more than a distant hum. Water glistens across the black stone driveway while armed men stand beneath the covered entrance watching every vehicle approaching the estate with the same disciplined vigilance that has surrounded my brother for most of his adult life.
The moment I step inside, cool air and the faint scent of cedar, whiskey, and expensive tobacco fill the entry hall. Low instrumental music moves quietly through the house while warm amber light spills across the dark wood floors.
Roman sits near the windows overlooking the river, one ankle crossed over his knee, a glass of bourbon resting loosely in his hand. He doesn’t rise when I enter. He watches me approach with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing.
“You look angry.”
I drag a hand across the back of my neck while crossing toward the sitting area. “I nearly killed Enzo.”
Roman studies my face before gesturing toward the decanter beside him. “Then pour a drink before you explain.”
I do. The bourbon burns warmly down my throat while I stare into the amber liquid, forcing the fury beneath my skin back under control before I start speaking again.
Roman waits. He’s always understood silence better than most men understand conversation.
I lower myself into the leather chair opposite him and recount the meeting from the beginning. The shipping routes. Enzo’s comments about pressure. Maggie’s name entering the conversation. The knife against his throat.
Roman listens without interruption, though I notice the subtle tightening near his jaw the moment I repeat Enzo’s warning about Savannah no longer feeling safe for Maggie. That reaction tells me Roman already understands the danger escalating around her.
When I finish speaking, Roman drains the last of the bourbon from his glass. “They identified an emotional vulnerability,” he says.
“I’m aware.”
“No.” His gaze remains fixed on mine. “You understand the words. That’s different.”
I lean back in the chair, irritation already rising again. “You think I lost control.”
“I think you reacted exactly how a man reacts when someone threatens a woman he cares about.” Roman refills his glass. “That’s not the same thing.”
Maggie’s face flashes through my mind. She doesn’t belong anywhere near this world. And yet somehow every road now leads directly to her.
Roman watches me quietly before continuing. “Once enemies identify leverage, logic changes. Men stop choosing efficient outcomes because emotional leverage creates unpredictability.”
“Maggie has security.”
“So did Clara.”
The words slice through me like a blade between my ribs.
Roman doesn’t soften the statement. Neither of us believes truth becomes easier when wrapped carefully. Clara died because we underestimated how personal the attack against us truly was. We treated it like business when emotion sat underneath it the entire time. I won’t repeat that mistake.
“I won’t lose them,” I say quietly. “Not Ivy or Maggie.”
Roman’s eyes stay locked on mine, impossible to interpret. “You may not get to decide that entirely.”
Rage burns through me again, tangled this time with the ugly fear of failing. Roman notices the reaction.
We grew up learning how to read danger before words were ever spoken aloud. My brother has spent decades observing weakness inside men before they recognize it inside themselves.
“She matters to you,” he says.
It’s not a question.
I look away for a moment instead of answering immediately, my eyes moving across the study while I consider lying. Not to him. To myself. But there’s no point.
