Chapter 6
Roman gently wrapped his strong, tattooed arms around his daughter, pulling her into a fierce, protective embrace. He buried his face in her soft hair, the faint scent of cheap soap cutting straight to his core. For three years, he had operated as a ruthless, unfeeling machine, expanding his empire to fill the void he thought Nora had left behind. Holding his child now, feeling her small heartbeat against his chest, the ice around his heart shattered completely.
"I'm sorry," Roman murmured into her shoulder, his volume so low only she and Nora could hear. "I am so sorry I wasn't there."
Sophie hugged him back, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck. "It's okay, Daddy. You're here now."
Roman stood up slowly, lifting Sophie effortlessly into his arms and resting her on his hip. He turned his cold, sharp eyes back to the room. The elite crowd of white American adults had not moved an inch. They were trapped in a surreal tableau, waiting for their Boss to dictate the reality of the night.
"Vito," Roman called out, his deep, raspy voice projecting across the ballroom.
A senior capo, a man in his late fifties with silver hair and a tailored tuxedo, stepped forward from the crowd. "Yes, Boss."
"The gala is over," Roman commanded with measured, absolute authority. "Clear the room. Escort the guests to their vehicles. Anyone who speaks of what happened here tonight to the press, or to the rival families, will be dealt with personally by me."
"Understood, Roman," Vito nodded respectfully, immediately gesturing to the perimeter bodyguards to begin herding the stunned donors toward the exits.
Roman turned his attention back to Nora. She stood awkwardly in her modest coat and simple blouse, looking entirely out of place in the grand, opulent setting.
"Come with me," Roman said gently, extending his free hand toward her.
"Where are we going?" Nora asked, her voice still trembling with residual adrenaline and fear.
"Upstairs," Roman replied. "To my private quarters. You are safe now, Nora. Both of you. No one in this city will ever lay a hand on you again."
Nora hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his. His grip was warm and solid. He led them away from the bright, cinematic lights of the ballroom, walking them toward the private, heavily guarded elevators at the back of the estate.
As the elevator doors closed, sealing out the noise of the departing guests, Roman looked down at Nora. The beautiful, twenty-eight-year-old woman he had loved before his ascension to power looked exhausted, worn down by three years of poverty and grief.
"I have a lot to explain," Roman said quietly, the elevator ascending smoothly to the penthouse suite.
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"You have an entire life to explain," Nora corrected him, her eyes flicking to the artistic tattoos on his hands. "You weren't a boss when I met you, Roman. You were just a lieutenant. You told me you were getting out."
"I tried," Roman said, the controlled pauses returning as the heavy weight of his mafia life pressed down on him. "But when I woke up from the coma. And thought you were gone. I had nothing left. So I took the throne."
