Chapter 6 - The Price of Walking AwayCarlo’s arrest did not end the war.
It simply changed its shape.
Within forty-eight hours, federal agents raided six warehouses, three offices, two restaurants, and a funeral home that had apparently been laundering money for seventeen years.
Roman spent fourteen hours being questioned.
He returned to the convent at two in the morning.
Jo was awake.
She found him standing alone in the kitchen.
No jacket.
No tie.
No gun.
That last detail frightened her most.
“How bad?”
Roman opened the refrigerator.
Closed it again.
“Bad.”
“Prison?”
“Possibly.”
Jo’s stomach tightened.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
He finally looked at her.
“I gave them Carlo. They want the rest.”
“And?”
“And I’m considering giving it to them.”
Jo sat down.
Roman remained standing.
“If I cooperate, people go to prison.”
“Criminals?”
“Some.”
“Then I’m struggling to identify the tragedy.”
“Some of those men have families.”
“So did Daniel.”
Roman flinched.
Jo regretted it instantly.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He pulled out a chair.
“You’re right.”
He sat.
“For twenty years I told myself there were rules. That our business could be controlled. No children. No civilians. No unnecessary blood.”
“And did everyone follow those rules?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
Roman stared at his hands.
“Not always.”
Jo waited.
He told her things that night.
Not everything.
Enough.
He told her about men he had hurt.
Orders he had given.
Lives destroyed indirectly because Roman had signed a piece of paper or made a phone call.
Jo did not excuse him.
That mattered.
She listened.
When he finished, dawn was appearing.
“You’re waiting for me to leave,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because now you know what I am.”
“I already knew.”
“No. You knew the romantic version.”
Roman laughed bitterly.
“The wounded gangster bleeding on your floor. The protective brother. The dangerous man who kisses you against kitchen counters.”
Jo held his gaze.
“You think I fell in love with an illusion?”
The word escaped before she could stop it.
Love.
Roman froze.
So did Jo.
Neither moved.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
Roman stood.
Jo stood too.
He looked terrified.
Roman Costa, who had walked into gunfire, looked genuinely terrified.
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“Josephine.”
“You heard me.”
“I need to hear it again.”
She stared at him.
“I love you.”
Roman closed his eyes.
His face tightened as though the words physically hurt.
Then he stepped toward her.
“I love you too.”
There was no dramatic kiss.
No desperate collision.
He simply wrapped his arms around her.
Jo rested her face against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady beneath her cheek.
For once neither of them was bleeding.
It felt miraculous.
Roman cooperated.
Over the next three months, the Costa organization disappeared piece by piece.
Roman surrendered businesses.
Accounts were frozen.
Associates were arrested.
Others fled.
He negotiated immunity for Sylvia.
Reduced charges for Mateo.
Nothing for himself.
Jo continued working.
That was her condition.
She refused Roman’s money.
Refused a private apartment.
Refused bodyguards after the immediate danger ended.
She returned to the clinic.
Roman hated it.
He accepted it.
That was love too.
Not protection.
Respect.
One afternoon Roman appeared outside the clinic wearing jeans and a dark sweater.
Jo nearly walked past him.
“You own jeans?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“What happened to the suits?”
“Federal agents have seen enough of them.”
He held out coffee.
Jo accepted.
They walked.
“What happened?”
Roman stopped.
“My agreement is finalized.”
Jo waited.
“Eighteen months.”
Her heart dropped.
“Prison?”
“Federal custody.”
“When?”
“Three weeks.”
Jo looked away.
Cars passed.
People walked around them.
The city continued functioning despite the fact that her world had stopped.
Roman touched her face.
“Josephine.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Comfort me like you’re dying.”
“I’m not dying.”
“You’re leaving.”
“For eighteen months.”
“That is leaving.”
“Yes.”
She hated that he did not lie.
Jo started crying.
Quietly.
Angrily.
Roman pulled her against him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say you’re coming back.”
“I’m coming back.”
“Say you’ll still want this.”
“I will.”
“You don’t know that.”
Roman tilted her face upward.
“I knew I wanted you when you poured alcohol into a bullet wound without warning.”
Despite herself, Jo laughed through tears.
“That was medically questionable.”
“It was sadistic.”
“You deserved it.”
“I probably did.”
Then he kissed her.
Slowly.
Like a promise rather than an emergency.
Three weeks later, Jo watched Roman surrender himself.
He handed over his watch.
His wallet.
His belt.
Then he turned toward her.
No touching was allowed past the barrier.
Roman placed his palm against the glass.
Jo placed hers opposite.
“Eighteen months,” she whispered.
“Eighteen months.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Arrogant bastard.”
Roman smiled.
Then they took him away.
Jo stood there long after he disappeared.
For the first time since Roman crashed through her apartment door, there was no danger.
No gunfire.
No blood.
No emergency.
May you like
Only waiting.
And waiting, Jo discovered, could hurt worse than bullets.
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