Chapter 5
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of a glass-and-steel monolith in the financial district.
The elevator opened directly into the living space — a sprawling cavern of polished concrete, dark wood, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the glittering grid of the city. It didn’t look like a home. It looked like an observation deck: cold, immaculate, entirely devoid of personal touches. No photographs. No books that looked read. Not one stray item on the matte black kitchen island.
Sloan stood in the center of the room with a bag of frozen peas pressed to her wrist.
A silent older woman in a gray dress appeared the moment they arrived, cleaned and bandaged Sloan’s thumb, and vanished down a back corridor without being asked. Roman stood behind a massive walnut desk at the far end of the room, pouring amber liquid from a crystal decanter into two glasses.
He walked over and offered her one.
Sloan shook her head. “I’ve had enough scotch spilled on me for one night.”
He didn’t push. He set the second glass on the coffee table, took a slow sip from his own, shed his jacket over the back of a leather armchair, and loosened his tie.
For the first time all night, he looked vaguely human. Exhausted.
“Sit.”
She remained standing. “You can’t force me to marry you.”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything.” He sat, elbows on his knees, the glass cradled between his hands. “You are free to walk out of that elevator right now. Go back to your apartment. Figure out how to pay the twelve hundred in back rent. Explain to the Silver Pines facility why the checks for your father’s physical therapy stopped clearing.”
Sloan froze. The bag of peas slipped a fraction of an inch against her wrist.
“How do you know about that?”
“I know everything about Preston Hayes.” He said it simply. “That includes his victims. I know he forged your father’s signature on the mezzanine loan. I know your father suffered a hemorrhagic stroke three days after the bank seized the company. I know you dropped out of a master’s program at Columbia to wait tables so you could keep him in a facility that barely changes his sheets.”
A hot, prickly wave of defensive anger washed over her.
She hated that he knew her pain. She hated that her whole tragedy was a line item on his spreadsheet.
“You stalked me.”
“I did a background check on a liability.” His tone was indifferent. “And now that liability has become an asset. Sit down, Sloan.”
She didn’t want to obey. But her legs were shaking from exhaustion, so she sank onto the very edge of the sofa and kept her back straight.
“Tell me exactly what you want.”
“I need a wife.” He set his glass down. “The syndicate is in transition. The old guard — the men who operated out of social clubs and back alleys — are dying out. We’re moving into corporate acquisitions, real estate, legitimate international shipping. To do that, I need to look legitimate. A single man with my reputation is a target for the federal government. A married man — a family man, establishing charitable trusts, attending galas — is a pillar of the community. It makes municipal contracts much easier to obtain.”
“A PR stunt,” Sloan said.
“A shield,” Roman corrected. “Preston gave me the perfect excuse to accelerate the timeline. By tomorrow afternoon, the entire city will know I crippled a man for insulting the woman I love. The narrative is set. We only have to sign the paperwork to make it legally binding.”
Sloan stared at the reflection of the city lights in the glass table.
“And if I say no?”
“Then you go home. I kill Preston Hayes quietly next week. And you spend the rest of your life drowning in debt.” He leaned back, watching her. “But if you say yes, you never look at a price tag again.”
Her mind raced. It was a deal with the devil — but the devil was offering precisely what she had spent three years praying for.
“I have terms,” she said quietly.
Roman raised a dark eyebrow. Genuine interest flickered in his eyes. “Go on.”
“My father moves to the Vanguard Institute. Private room. Round-the-clock specialists. Paid in full, indefinitely.” She ticked it off on her fingers. “Second — the debt Preston saddled my family with. You clear it. You wipe the slate.”
“Done,” Roman said without hesitation.
Sloan took a breath.
“Third. Preston Hayes.” She lifted her chin. “You said you were going to ruin him. I don’t want you to just kill him. Death is too easy.”
Roman tilted his head. “What do you want?”
“I want him to lose his company. I want him bankrupt. I want him to feel exactly what he made my father feel.”
For a long, silent moment, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the central heating.
Then, very slowly, something touched the corners of Roman Costa’s mouth — not a kind smile, but a genuine one, and it changed his entire face, making it look devastatingly sharp.
“Vengeance.” He murmured the word like he was tasting it. “You have a spine after all, Sloan.”
“Do we have a deal or not?”
He pulled a sleek black phone from his pocket, tapped the screen twice, and pressed it to his ear.
“It’s done,” he said. “Freeze Hayes’s accounts. All of them. Liquidate the offshore shells. Burn his municipal contacts. I want him evicted from his home by Monday.” A pause. “And contact the Vanguard Institute. Their best suite, prepped for a transfer by noon tomorrow.”
He hung up and tossed the phone onto the desk.
May you like
He looked at Sloan, and his dark eyes locked onto hers and held.
“Your terms are met,” he said. “You sleep in the guest room down the hall. We go to the courthouse at eight.” A pause. “Welcome to the family.”
