Chapter 5
The first thing Roman did after Morgana chose to stay was step away from her.
It was not what she expected.
For five months, Roman Costa had been a man built entirely from control.
He controlled docks.
Routes.
Men.
Money.
Violence.
Even when a bullet had torn through his side, he had tried to control where Morgana went, who protected her, and how far away from danger she should be taken.
Yet now, with the front doors closed and her duffel bag lying abandoned on the hardwood, Roman released her as though touching her had suddenly become dangerous.
Morgana studied him.
“What?”
Roman looked toward the bag.
Then toward her.
“You need to understand something before this goes any further.”
His voice had returned to the controlled tone he used in meetings.
Morgana almost smiled.
Apparently Roman Costa could face armed men without blinking, but an emotional conversation required full defensive fortification.
“I’m listening.”
“You have twenty thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“You have no debt.”
“I know.”
“Jason has no claim over you.”
“I’m aware.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“If you want to leave tomorrow, you leave.”
Morgana’s expression changed.
A few minutes earlier, he had whispered that if she stayed, he would not let her leave.
Now he was giving her the door again.
Roman noticed her confusion.
“What I said before…”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
It was perhaps the most uncertain gesture Morgana had ever seen from him.
“That was what I wanted.”
“And this?”
“This is what you need to hear.”
Roman looked directly at her.
“I will never own you.”
The words settled quietly between them.
Morgana did not answer.
Roman continued.
“I don’t care what Jason agreed to. I don’t care what was written in the ledger. I don’t care what anybody in my organization thought you were when you arrived.”
His gaze hardened.
“If you stay in this house, you stay because every morning you decide to.”
Morgana felt something inside her loosen.
Something she had carried for years.
Perhaps her entire life.
Roman nodded toward the stairs.
“Keep your room.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You mean the room with the lock?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we established I didn’t need it.”
“You need somewhere that belongs only to you.”
Roman’s answer came immediately.
“A room I don’t enter without permission.”
That mattered more than Morgana wanted him to know.
Roman saw it anyway.
He always did.
Morgana looked toward the duffel bag.
“So what happens now?”
“I don’t know.”
Roman Costa admitted uncertainty.
The earth did not split open.
Morgana almost laughed.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“That must be terrifying.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Careful.”
There was no threat behind it.
Morgana smiled.
Roman stared at that smile for half a second too long.
Then Hayes opened the front door.
He had apparently decided enough time had passed to determine whether the SUV was still necessary.
He looked at Morgana.
Then at Roman.
Then at the duffel bag.
“You staying?”
“Yes.”
Hayes nodded once.
“All right.”
That was it.
He reached for the duffel.
Roman moved first.
“I’ve got it.”
Hayes’s eyebrows rose.
Morgana caught the expression.
Roman did too.
“Say it,” Roman warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.”
Hayes disappeared outside.
Roman picked up Morgana’s old bag.
A man whose employees transported millions of dollars in cargo carried two pairs of old jeans and three worn sweaters upstairs.
Morgana followed.
Halfway up, Roman stopped.
His body stiffened.
His hand went instinctively toward his left side.
The bullet wound.
“You’re hurting.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Roman continued climbing.
Morgana caught his arm.
He stopped.
Five months earlier, she would never have touched him without permission.
Now she pulled his jacket aside.
Roman looked down at her hand.
“You’re still healing.”
“The doctor cleared me.”
“For what?”
“Work.”
“I’m not asking about work.”
His gaze changed.
Heat entered it.
Morgana realized exactly how her words sounded.
Neither moved.
Roman’s voice dropped.
“You should be careful with questions like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve spent five months being careful around you.”
The air changed.
Morgana could hear her own heartbeat.
Roman put the duffel down.
He moved one step closer.
Not touching.
Waiting.
Morgana understood.
He would not cross the remaining distance.
Not this time.
The decision had to be hers.
She lifted her face.
Roman remained perfectly still.
So Morgana kissed him.
It was not dramatic.
No desperate collision.
No cinematic surrender.
Her lips simply touched his.
Softly.
Briefly.
Roman inhaled.
She pulled back half an inch.
His eyes opened.
Dark.
Focused.
“Again,” he said.
Morgana kissed him again.
Roman’s hand moved to her waist.
Slowly.
Giving her every opportunity to stop him.
She did not.
The second kiss lasted longer.
Years of restraint seemed built into the way Roman held himself.
He did not pull her against him.
Did not take control.
Morgana finally understood why.
Roman was afraid.
Not of rejection.
Of becoming another man who took something from her because he could.
She placed both hands against his chest.
Roman broke the kiss immediately.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
She almost laughed.
“You’re terrified.”
Roman stared.
“I have killed men with less anxiety than this.”
That did make her laugh.
A real laugh.
Roman’s expression softened.
He touched her cheek.
“You think that’s funny?”
“A little.”
“Cruel woman.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I usually do.”
The warmth disappeared when Hayes shouted from downstairs.
“Roman.”
One word.
Different tone.
Roman changed instantly.
His hand left Morgana.
He turned toward the staircase.
“What?”
Hayes appeared below.
Phone in hand.
His expression was serious.
“We have a problem.”
Roman descended.
Morgana followed.
Hayes looked toward her.
Roman noticed.
“She stays.”
Hayes hesitated.
Then spoke.
“Port Authority found something in Warehouse Fourteen.”
“What?”
“Three bodies.”
Morgana stopped.
Roman did not.
“Whose?”
“Two are Vulov soldiers.”
Hayes looked at the phone.
“The third is ours.”
“Who?”
“Daniel Mercer.”
Roman became completely still.
Morgana had never heard the name.
But she saw what it did to him.
“Impossible.”
Hayes shook his head.
“Dental confirmation came back twenty minutes ago.”
Roman took the phone.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
He stared.
“Who is Daniel Mercer?” Morgana asked.
Neither man answered immediately.
Roman finally looked at her.
“He was my father’s accountant.”
“Was?”
“He disappeared eleven years ago.”
Roman handed the phone back.
“We thought he was dead.”
Hayes’s expression remained grim.
“Apparently we were right.”
Morgana frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Roman said.
“It doesn’t.”
Hayes continued.
“Medical examiner’s preliminary estimate puts time of death at less than forty-eight hours.”
Silence.
Morgana understood.
A man believed dead for eleven years had actually been alive until two days ago.
Roman walked toward his office.
“Lock the estate.”
Hayes followed.
“I already doubled the gate.”
“Call Miller.”
Roman’s voice sharpened.
“I want everything we have on Mercer. Old files. Tax records. Photographs. Every account he touched.”
He reached the office doors.
Then stopped.
“Morgana.”
She looked at him.
“Go upstairs.”
Her expression hardened immediately.
Roman saw it.
He exhaled.
“Not because you’re an employee.”
“Then why?”
“Because someone just put a corpse from my father’s generation inside one of my warehouses.”
His eyes were cold now.
“This isn’t about the Vulovs.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the Vulovs were criminals.”
Roman opened the office door.
“They weren’t historians.”
He looked at Hayes.
“Somebody is digging up the past.”
Morgana crossed her arms.
“And?”
Roman’s attention returned to her.
“And people who dig up Costa history usually do it because they intend to bury someone with it.”
That night, Roman did not come upstairs.
At 2:30 a.m., Morgana found him sitting behind his desk surrounded by files.
She knocked against the open door.
Roman looked up.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“So are you.”
She entered.
Roman did not tell her to leave.
That alone told her the rules had changed.
Morgana put a plate beside his hand.
Sandwich.
Apple.
Water.
Roman looked at it.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Feeding me when my life becomes inconvenient.”
“You become stupid when you don’t eat.”
“I’m always stupid.”
“No.”
Morgana sat opposite him.
“You’re dangerous when you’re rested.”
She pushed the plate closer.
“You’re stupid when you’re exhausted.”
Roman ate.
Morgana looked at the photographs spread across the desk.
One showed a younger Roman beside an older man.
Roman could not have been more than twenty-five.
His face looked different.
Less controlled.
More openly angry.
“Your father?”
Roman followed her gaze.
“Salvatore Costa.”
Morgana picked up the photograph.
Salvatore was broad-shouldered.
Gray at the temples.
A hand rested on Roman’s shoulder.
“Were you close?”
“No.”
Roman took another bite.
“He trained me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.”
Morgana waited.
Roman leaned back.
“My father believed love made men predictable.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“He wasn’t.”
Roman looked toward the photograph.
“He built this organization from nothing. He also believed everyone had a price.”
“Did he?”
“Most people do.”
Morgana raised an eyebrow.
“What’s mine?”
Roman looked at her.
The answer came without hesitation.
“Freedom.”
She stopped.
Roman continued quietly.
“That’s why I opened the door.”
For a moment, the files no longer mattered.
Then Morgana noticed something.
She picked up another photograph.
Daniel Mercer.
Thin.
Glasses.
Gray suit.
He stood beside Salvatore at some formal dinner.
Behind them was another man.
Morgana leaned closer.
“Who is this?”
Roman looked.
His expression changed.
“Anthony Bell.”
“Another accountant?”
“No.”
Roman took the photograph.
“My father’s lawyer.”
“Still alive?”
Roman stared at the image.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Boston.”
Morgana looked at Daniel Mercer again.
“Maybe you should ask him why a dead accountant stayed alive for eleven years.”
Roman reached for his phone.
Then stopped.
A small white envelope had been hidden beneath the photograph.
Neither of them had noticed it.
Roman pulled it free.
His name was written across the front.
Not typed.
Handwritten.
ROMAN COSTA.
Roman opened it.
Inside was a single sheet.
He read.
His face became expressionless.
Morgana knew that expression now.
It meant something was very wrong.
“What does it say?”
Roman handed her the paper.
There were only eight words.
Your father lied about the night your mother died.
Morgana looked up.
Roman was no longer looking at the files.
May you like
He was staring at the old photograph of Salvatore Costa.
And for the first time since she had known him, Roman looked like a son rather than a king.
