Chapter 10 - The Sovereign’s Vow
Three months later, the city was unrecognizable.
The autumn storms had yielded to a crisp, radiant winter morning. The Marcone family had been dismantled completely, their assets absorbed, their corrupted officials removed from office, and the criminal underworld of the city restructured under absolute, unchallenged discipline.
On the terrace of the Duca estate, overlooking gardens blanketed in pristine white snow, Clara stood leaning against the stone balustrade. She wore an elegant emerald cashmere sweater, holding a warm mug of coffee. Her hair danced in the gentle morning breeze, her eyes no longer shadowed by fear or exhaustion.
Leo was safe, enrolled in a prestigious surgical residency program in Switzerland, fully funded and protected under an ironclad international trust.
Heavy glass doors slid open behind her.
Roman walked out onto the terrace. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over a dark knit sweater. Though his walk retained a slight, subtle caution from the scars beneath his clothes, his presence was more formidable and commanding than ever.
He didn't speak. He simply walked to Clara’s side, resting his forearms against the balustrade, looking out over the empire he commanded.
""You're up early,"" Clara said softly, a smile touching her lips. ""The doctor said you need at least eight hours of rest.""
""The doctor doesn't run this city,"" Roman replied in his trademark low, dry rumble.
""No, but I do when you're sleeping,"" she teased gently, turning her head to meet his gaze.
Roman looked at her, his dark eyes softening in that private, intimate way reserved exclusively for her. It was a look that would have shocked the hardened capos who knelt before him in boardrooms.
He reached out, his warm, scarred fingers gently tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear.
""Your brother called,"" Roman said. ""He passed his first surgical board exam. He asked if you were coming for the holidays.""
""I told him I was busy,"" Clara whispered, stepping closer until her side brushed against his.
Roman raised an eyebrow, amused. ""Busy doing what?""
""Busy keeping the most dangerous man in the city from getting himself shot again,"" she answered, looking up into his eyes with fierce devotion and playful warmth.
Roman went quiet. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, velvet box. He didn't drop to one knee; men like Roman Duca knelt for no one, yet the reverence in his posture was unmistakable.
He opened the box. Inside rested a platinum ring set with a brilliant, flawless emerald surrounded by diamonds, matching the color of her sweater and the fierce life in her eyes.
""The night you fell into my lap,"" Roman spoke, his voice carrying the weight of an unshakeable oath, ""my life stopped being about survival. It became about protecting the only real thing I have ever held.""
Clara’s breath hitched. A tear, bright and clear, rolled down her cheek, but this time it wasn't born of fear.
""Three rules, remember?"" she whispered through a laugh, wiping the tear away.
""I’m changing the rules,"" Roman replied, his voice dropping into that deep, husky timber that had owned her heart from the very first night. He took her left hand, sliding the heavy platinum band onto her ring finger with steady, reverent perfection.
""Rule number one: You never look back. Rule number two: Everything I own is yours.""
Roman stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest just as the winter sun broke through the clouds, bathing them in golden light.
""And rule number three?"" Clara whispered, looping her arms around his neck, feeling the strong, steady beating of his heart beneath her palms.
May you like
Roman smiled, leaning down until his lips brushed against hers.
""Rule number three: You stay."""
