Chapter 5
The silence in the grand ballroom was absolute, heavy with the metallic tang of adrenaline and unspoken violence. The bright, cinematic lighting cast sharp, uncompromising shadows across Helena’s terrified face. She pushed herself upright against the registration table, her hands shaking violently. A bright, angry red welt was already forming across her fair, rosy cheek.
"Roman, please," Helena whimpered, her aristocratic arrogance completely shattered. "I put it into the offshore holding accounts. I kept it safe! I didn't steal it for myself, I kept it within the family trusts! I swear it!"
"You starved my blood," Roman whispered, his cold eyes dropping to look at the torn, filthy clothing on his three-year-old daughter. "You let my child walk in rags. While you wear pearls bought with my money."
"She isn't worthy of our name!" Helena shrieked, a sudden, desperate burst of defensive pride breaking through her terror. "She is a bastard child! You are the Boss, Roman! You need a wife from the Five Families! You need pure blood to secure your legacy!"
"My legacy. Is standing right beside me," Roman stated, his voice a low, lethal hum.
He turned his attention away from his mother and looked at the crowd of stunned capos and guests.
"Marcus," Roman commanded, his deep voice projecting effortlessly across the room.
A senior capo, a broad-shouldered man in his late forties wearing a tailored tuxedo, stepped forward from the crowd. "Yes, Boss."
"Clear the ballroom," Roman ordered. "The gala is over. 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," Marcus 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, her hands trembling as she looked at him.
"Come with me," Roman said gently, extending his large hand toward her.
"Where are we going?" Nora asked, her voice shaking with residual adrenaline and fear.
"To my private office," Roman replied. "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, solid, and fiercely protective. He led them away from the bright, cinematic lights of the ballroom, walking them down the long, immaculate corridors of the estate toward the heavy mahogany doors of his inner sanctum.
As the doors closed behind them, sealing out the noise of the departing guests, Roman looked down at Nora. The beautiful, twenty-five-year-old woman he had loved before his full ascension to power looked exhausted, worn down by three years of poverty and grief.
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"I have a lot to explain," Roman said quietly, walking behind his massive oak desk.
"You have an entire life to explain," Nora corrected him, her eyes flashing with a sudden, returning spark of anger. "You let her convince you I was a gold digger, Roman. You didn't even come looking for me."
