Chapter 4 - The Fortress and the Flame
The blue and red lights of Lake Forest squad cars swept across the limestone facade of Villa Rosalia, painting the rebel angels on the ballroom ceiling in rhythmic pulses of emergency color.
The guests had been evacuated through the conservatory. Federal agents, local police, and private security swarmed the grounds, securing the perimeter and loading Adrien Cross and his three bruised mercenaries into the backs of armored transport vans.
In the corner of the grand salon, Grant Holloway sat on a velvet settee, his hands cuffed behind his back, sobbing openly into his knees as two plainclothes Chicago detectives stood over him with clipboards.
“I didn't know!” Grant was blubbering, snot running down his upper lip. “I swear to God, I didn't know Adrien was going to rob the place! He just said... he said if I helped him divert the security manifests through my firm’s logistics server, he’d give me twenty percent of the auction proceeds! I thought it was an insurance write-off! That’s all!”
Enzo Varga stood nearby, a white bandage taped over his left eyebrow, sipping a paper cup of black coffee. He looked at Grant with pure disgust.
“Twenty percent,” Enzo muttered, shaking his head. “A twenty-percent cut to ruin three lives. You’re not even an evil genius, Holloway. You’re just a coupon-clipping rat.”
Upstairs, in the master wing of the mansion where no guest had ever set foot, the door clicked shut, locking out the noise of the sirens and the police radios.
The master bedroom was vast, masculine, and smelling of old paper, leather, and cedar. A roaring fire burned in a fireplace made of rough-hewn slate, casting long, warm amber shadows across a king-sized bed covered in heavy dark wool.
Sienna sat on the edge of the bed, her feet bare, the ruined emerald velvet gown hanging loose around her shoulders. Her hair was down now, falling in dark, tangled curls around her bruised neck.
The bathroom door opened, and Roman stepped out.
He had stripped off his tuxedo jacket, his tie, and his iron mask. He wore only a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. In his hands, he carried a silver bowl of warm water, a clean cotton cloth, and a small bottle of antiseptic.
He didn't say a word.
He pulled a heavy leather armchair up to the edge of the bed, sat down directly in front of her, and set the bowl on the bedside table.
Sienna looked at him. His face was pale beneath his olive skin, the silver at his temples catching the firelight. The terrible, lethal fury that had consumed him in the ballroom had receded, replaced by a quiet, raw exhaustion that made him look human in a way that made her throat tighten.
Roman dipped the cloth into the warm water, wrung it out with his large hands, and lifted it toward her jaw.
“This will sting,” he said softly. His voice was hoarse, rough from the smoke and the shouting.
“I’ve had worse,” she whispered.
Roman paused, his eyes locking onto hers. “Not in my house. Never again in my house.”
He brought the warm cloth against her neck, gently dabbing away the dried blood where Adrien’s blade had nicked the skin. His touch was so light, so achingly careful, that Sienna’s eyes burned with unexpected tears. This was a man whose hands could break bones with careless efficiency, yet he was cleaning her wound as if she were made of spun glass.
“Why did you come down to the electrical annex?” he asked quietly, his thumb resting gently against the side of her chin to steady her head.
“I realized Adrien was lying,” she said, her voice trembling slightly under the warmth of his fingers. “He went down to check the generators himself. Planners don't check industrial switchboards, Roman. And then Grant... Grant slipped up. He told me Adrien had been meeting with him.”
Roman’s jaw hardened, but his touch remained feather-light. “Grant Holloway will spend the next eight to twelve years in a federal penitentiary for conspiracy, grand larceny, and corporate sabotage. His accounts were frozen forty minutes ago. By tomorrow morning, his name will be poison from Milwaukee to Indianapolis.”
Sienna looked down at Roman’s broad chest, watching the steady, heavy rise and fall of his breathing beneath the white cotton shirt.
“You didn't have to ruin him for me,” she whispered.
“I didn't ruin him for you,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly hum that vibrated straight through her chest. “I ruined him because he looked at you and thought you were something he could discard. A man who throws away gold because he doesn't know how to polish it deserves to starve in the gutter.”
Sienna swallowed hard, her breath hitching. The intimacy between them was suddenly suffocating, hotter than the fire roaring in the hearth.
“The auction,” she remembered suddenly, looking up with wide eyes. “The lantern! Did they—?”
“The lantern is sitting on my study desk,” Roman interrupted, the corner of his mouth curving into that rare, devastating half-smirk. “Not a single scratch on the enamel. Enzo intercepted the runner at the conservatory door.”
“And the hospital?”
“Before the lights went out,” Roman said, leaning closer, his gray eyes darkening with an intensity that made Sienna’s pulse race wildly against her ribs, “the bidding reached five point eight million dollars. Mrs. Crown bought it.”
Sienna stared at him, her lips parting. “Five point eight million?”
“Which means,” Roman murmured, setting the cloth aside into the bowl, his hands rising to gently cup both sides of her face, “you won the bet, Sienna.”
The air left Sienna’s lungs in a rush.
His palms were warm, slightly rough against her cheeks. His thumbs traced the soft curve of her cheekbones, tilting her face up toward his. The age difference, the billions of dollars, the bloodstained ballroom downstairs—everything melted away into the heat of his gaze.
“The bet,” she whispered, her heart pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it. “You have to dance with me.”
“There’s no jazz band up here, little bird,” Roman said, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble.
“We don't need a band.”
Roman didn't answer with words.
Slowly, deliberately, giving her every second to pull away, he leaned down.
When his lips touched hers, Sienna felt an electric shock ripple through her entire body. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was deep, hungry, filled with the terrifying possessiveness of a man who had come within an inch of losing the only thing that had brought light into his dark world in twenty years.
Sienna gasped against his mouth, her hands rising instinctively to clutch at the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer. She tasted the dark roast of his espresso, the faint trace of smoke, and the raw, unyielding power of a man who had surrendered his control to no one—until now.
Roman let out a low groan, shifting from the armchair onto the bed, his large arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her firmly against his chest. The kiss deepened, sweeping her up into a whirlwind of heat and sensation. He kissed her as if she were sacred, his mouth tracing the line of her jaw, down to the small bandage on her neck, making her arch her back with a soft whimper.
“You called me an old man,” Roman growled against the sensitive skin beneath her ear, his teeth grazing her pulse point.
“You are an old man,” she breathed, tangling her fingers into the silver-streaked dark hair at the back of his head. “And you’re completely out of your mind.”
“Then stay here,” Roman whispered, his gray eyes blazing into hers as he pulled back just an inch, his chest heaving against hers. “Stay in Lake Forest. Forget the drafty loft in Pilsen. Forget the scavenger clients. Build your company from here. Run my galas. Run my life. Just don't walk out of that gate.”
Sienna looked into the fierce, desperate eyes of the most feared man in Chicago. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel the need to defend her space. She didn't feel too big, too loud, or too much.
She felt cherished.
“On one condition,” she said, her lips curving into a breathless smile.
Roman raised an eyebrow, a spark of amusement returning to his face. “You’re negotiating with me in my own bed, Sienna?”
“Always,” she whispered. “You fire whoever picked those eggplant curtains. And you let me repaint the master dining room.”
Roman laughed—a rich, deep, triumphant sound that echoed off the high rafters of the master suite.
May you like
“Deal,” he said, and pulled her down into the darkness of the firelight.
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