Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN ROMAN’S ARMS
Roman found the photographer before he found me.
His name was Daniel Kessler.
Freelance.
Forty-four.
Divorced.
Mostly photographed politicians leaving restaurants with women who were not their wives.
Roman’s men found him at 3:12 Christmas morning in a twenty-four-hour diner near River North.
According to Roman, nobody touched him.
I believe that now.
At the time, I would not have.
Kessler handed over his camera after Roman placed twenty thousand dollars on the table and promised another twenty if he answered honestly.
“Who hired you?”
“I don’t know.”
Roman stared at him.
Kessler swallowed.
“Online job. Anonymous client. They paid through a digital escrow service.”
“To photograph Celeste?”
“To photograph you.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Specifically tonight?”
“Yes.”
“What instructions?”
Kessler showed him.
FOLLOW VASCARI. GET AN IMAGE THAT LOOKS INTIMATE. SEND THE BEST ONE TO THIS NUMBER.
Roman reportedly read the message twice.
“What number?”
Kessler showed him mine.
That was when everything changed.
Roman called his security chief, Luca Moretti.
“Lock down the estate.”
“Already done.”
“Check Savannah’s phone records.”
“Roman—”
“Someone wanted her to see that photograph.”
Silence.
Then Luca asked the obvious question.
“Why?”
Roman already knew.
To get me out.
There was one problem.
He didn’t know where I had gone.
At 3:35 a.m., he called Maya again.
She answered.
I was beside her when she did.
We were in the car by then.
My contractions were six minutes apart.
Snow was getting heavier.
Maya had decided we should go to the hospital.
Her phone rang through the car speakers.
ROMAN VASCARI.
I looked at it.
“Don’t.”
Maya didn’t touch the screen.
It stopped.
Immediately rang again.
“Maya.”
“I know.”
Another contraction hit.
I gripped the door.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“That’s technically growling.”
The phone stopped.
Then rang a third time.
Maya looked at me.
“Savannah.”
“No.”
“If this is labor—”
“I don’t want him here.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She pulled into an empty pharmacy parking lot and turned toward me.
“But I’m also your doctor right now, and if something happens, I need your medical history.”
“I brought it.”
“You brought records.”
She lowered her voice.
“Does Roman know anything about your pregnancy that I don’t?”
I stared at her.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The phone rang again.
I finally grabbed it.
“Fine.”
Maya answered.
“Roman.”
His voice exploded through the speaker.
“Where is she?”
I flinched.
Maya didn’t.
“Lower your voice.”
“Where is my wife?”
“She’s safe.”
“Put her on.”
“No.”
“Maya.”
“Roman, if you threaten me, I’ll hang up.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed completely.
“Please.”
I closed my eyes.
“Is Savannah with you?”
“Yes.”
His breath escaped.
“Is she okay?”
Maya looked at me.
“She’s having contractions.”
Another silence.
This one felt endless.
“What?”
“She may be in early labor.”
“Where are you?”
“No.”
“Maya—”
“Savannah doesn’t want you here.”
His breathing changed.
I could hear it.
The man who frightened half of Chicago was losing control.
“Let me speak to her.”
I shook my head.
Maya said, “Not yet.”
“I need to know she’s okay.”
“She is.”
“My daughter?”
“Moving. Heart rate was fine when I checked.”
“You checked?”
“I’m an obstetrician, Roman.”
“I know what you are.”
“Apparently you forgot.”
Under different circumstances, I might have laughed.
Then Roman said something that made both of us go still.
“Do not take her to your usual hospital.”
Maya’s expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Someone sent Savannah that photograph deliberately.”
I looked at the phone.
Roman continued.
“The photographer was hired anonymously. They wanted her to leave the estate.”
A cold wave moved through me.
“What?” I whispered.
He heard.
“Savannah?”
I didn’t answer.
“Baby, listen to me.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Pain entered his silence.
Then he said, “Someone manipulated tonight.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You still left.”
“Yes.”
“You still lied.”
“Yes.”
Maya glanced at me.
Roman didn’t defend himself.
That almost made it worse.
“What was Celeste doing with you?”
“She was frightened.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain this safely over the phone.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
“It’s not because I’m trying to hide something from you.”
“That is exactly what hiding something means.”
“I know.”
That stopped me.
Roman continued quietly.
“I know, Savannah.”
The line was silent except for the snow brushing against Maya’s windshield.
Then Roman said, “Celeste isn’t my mistress.”
“Was she ever?”
“No.”
“Have you kissed her?”
“No.”
“Slept with her?”
“No.”
“Wanted to?”
“No.”
“Then why have you been lying to me for months?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because that answer was harder.
“Because she’s cooperating with federal investigators.”
Maya and I exchanged a look.
Roman continued.
“Her husband, Adrian Armand, died eleven months ago.”
“I know.”
“What you don’t know is that Adrian had been moving money through several companies linked to my uncle.”
“Your uncle Carlo?”
“Yes.”
Carlo Vascari had been Roman’s father’s younger brother.
Officially, he ran trucking businesses.
Unofficially, he had spent thirty years being the man reporters meant when they used phrases like organized crime ties.
Roman had cut business connections with him after we married.
At least, that was what he told me.
“Celeste found records after Adrian died,” Roman said. “Payments. Names. Bribes. Two murders tied to a construction union.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why are you involved?”
“Because one of the companies belonged to me six years ago.”
There it was.
The part he had really been hiding.
“Were you involved?”
“In the murders? No.”
“The money?”
Silence.
“Roman.”
“Yes.”
My heart sank.
“Before we married, I moved money through that company without asking enough questions.”
“How convenient.”
“I knew it wasn’t clean.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
Roman rarely confessed anything without qualifiers.
“I’ve spent years dismantling those relationships.”
“But you never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
I laughed once.
“You don’t get to turn shame into secrecy and call it protection.”
“I know.”
Again.
That terrible new phrase.
I know.
He explained Celeste had agreed to testify.
Someone had tried to frighten her that night.
She called Roman because the federal agent assigned to her was delayed.
At the hotel, Celeste learned someone had been inside her apartment.
The photograph caught the moment she panicked and Roman held her upright.
I believed the explanation.
And still felt betrayed.
Because the photograph was not the real problem.
Roman was.
“Someone knows about Celeste,” he said. “They know enough about us to understand what photograph would make you leave.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“So your solution is to put me back behind your gates?”
“No.”
I almost missed the word.
“What?”
“No,” he repeated. “My solution is to get you somewhere safe that you choose.”
Maya looked at me.
Roman continued.
“I will not come near you unless you ask.”
That was not the Roman I had left five hours earlier.
Maybe fear had taught him quickly.
Another contraction hit.
I gasped.
“Savannah?”
Maya checked the time.
“Five minutes.”
Roman swore softly.
“Where are you going?”
Maya answered.
“St. Anne’s.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“It’s not my usual hospital.”
Roman said, “I’ll have security stay three blocks away.”
“No,” I said.
He stopped.
“No men inside.”
“Agreed.”
“No Luca.”
“Agreed.”
“No one follows Maya.”
“Agreed.”
“And you don’t come unless I tell you.”
The silence lasted several seconds.
Then:
“Agreed.”
It must have cost him everything.
We drove.
Forty minutes later, I was admitted.
The contractions continued.
But after fluids and rest, they slowed.
False alarm.
Stress-induced uterine irritability, the physician called it.
I was relieved.
And furious.
Around dawn, Maya opened the curtain.
“There’s someone sitting in the parking garage.”
I already knew.
“Roman?”
She nodded.
“He’s been there for two hours.”
“He promised not to come in.”
“He hasn’t.”
I looked through the window.
From the sixth floor, I could barely make out a black SUV under the yellow lights.
Roman was keeping his promise.
For once, protection had stopped at the boundary I set.
Then Maya handed me her phone.
“There’s something else.”
Security footage from the estate.
Timestamp: 8:58 p.m.
Eight minutes before Maya arrived to pick me up.
A man wearing a maintenance jacket approached the east gate.
He used a valid access code.
A code belonging to one of Roman’s own people.
He entered the property carrying a small black case.
And he left nine minutes after I did.
Whoever had sent that photograph had expected me to remain alone.
Or expected me to leave.
Either way, they had access to Roman’s fortress.
May you like
The danger had never been outside the gates.
It was already inside.
