Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO KNEW OUR HOUSE
By noon on Christmas Day, Roman knew whose access code had been used.
Anthony Bellini.
Forty-one.
Married.
Two children.
A member of Roman’s estate security team for seven years.
The problem was that Anthony had been in Wisconsin visiting his parents since December twenty-third.
Someone had copied his credentials.
Roman wanted me transferred.
I refused.
“No.”
He stood six feet from my hospital bed.
That distance mattered.
I had finally allowed him into the room after making Maya stand beside the door like an armed diplomat.
Roman looked terrible.
He had changed clothes but not slept.
Dark stubble covered his jaw.
His eyes were red.
The great Roman Vascari looked less like the man newspapers whispered about and more like a terrified husband who had spent the night realizing money and power could not make his wife answer the phone.
“St. Anne’s security is not equipped for this,” he said.
“Maya trusts them.”
“This is not about trust.”
“Everything with you is about trust.”
His jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
He was trying.
I could see that.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Savannah.”
“You asked.”
“Yes.”
“I’m answering.”
He looked toward the window.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
One word.
It felt revolutionary.
Roman’s investigator, Luca, arrived an hour later but remained outside until I agreed to see him.
Luca had known Roman since they were teenagers.
He was not technically family.
In Roman’s world, that distinction meant almost nothing.
He placed photographs on the table.
The man in the maintenance jacket had been caught by a camera across the road.
Face partially visible.
Maya leaned closer.
“Do you know him?”
Roman did.
I saw it immediately.
“Who?”
He didn’t answer.
“Roman.”
“His name is Matteo Rinaldi.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Luca spoke.
“He worked for Carlo.”
“Your uncle?”
Roman nodded.
“What does he want?”
“Possibly Celeste.”
“Then why come to our house?”
Luca and Roman exchanged a look.
I hated those looks.
“Stop.”
Roman looked at me.
“Stop what?”
“Doing that.”
“What?”
“Having conversations with your eyes because I’m apparently too fragile to hear words.”
Luca lowered his gaze.
Roman rubbed his face.
“You’re right.”
“Then tell me.”
He sat across from me.
“Celeste’s records include information about a fund Carlo maintained.”
“What kind of fund?”
“Cash reserves. Offshore accounts. Emergency money.”
“How much?”
“Approximately sixty million dollars.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
“Carlo believes I know where the remaining access credentials are.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Does Celeste?”
“Possibly.”
“Does she know you don’t know?”
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“Then why would anyone target me?”
Roman went quiet.
Luca answered.
“Because Carlo believes Roman would trade anything for you.”
The room changed.
I looked at my husband.
Roman stared at the floor.
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
That should have sounded romantic.
Instead, it frightened me.
“You cannot.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“You cannot burn your life down every time someone threatens me.”
“I can.”
“That’s the problem.”
He opened his mouth.
I stopped him.
“If every enemy learns I’m the lever that moves you, then I’m not protected. I’m a target with better security.”
Roman went still.
Maya looked impressed.
Luca looked uncomfortable.
I continued.
“You built a prison around me and called it safety, but the walls only advertised my value.”
Roman said nothing.
Then slowly nodded.
“What would you do?”
The question stunned me.
He was asking.
Not telling.
“I’d work with law enforcement.”
Luca shifted.
Roman noticed.
“Say it.”
Luca hesitated.
“Federal agents already want Roman to cooperate.”
I looked at my husband.
“You haven’t?”
Roman’s expression told me enough.
“Why?”
“Because cooperation requires admitting things.”
“What things?”
“My past.”
The answer came quietly.
I stared at him.
“Our daughter is about to be born.”
“I know.”
“And you still think I shouldn’t know who her father was?”
“Was.”
Roman emphasized the word.
I heard the fear beneath it.
“I did things I’m ashamed of before I met you.”
“Illegal things?”
“Yes.”
“Violent?”
He hesitated.
My chest tightened.
“Roman.”
“I never killed anyone.”
“That was not my question.”
His eyes met mine.
“I ordered men hurt.”
Maya quietly left the room.
Luca followed.
They closed the door.
I stared at my husband.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not acceptable.”
“Six. Maybe seven.”
My daughter moved inside me.
I placed my hand over her.
“When?”
“My twenties.”
“Why?”
“Debt collections. Business disputes. Men who stole from my father.”
I felt sick.
“You told me you had never been part of that.”
“I told you I left it.”
“You let me believe you were never involved.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you would leave.”
I laughed bitterly.
“So instead you lied until I was pregnant enough to need help putting on shoes.”
He flinched.
Good.
“Savannah—”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Do you understand why I left?”
“The photograph.”
“No.”
That surprised him.
“I left because when I begged you to stay, you made me feel irrational for asking.”
He looked down.
“You called me emotional instead of answering.”
“I know.”
“You used the baby to dismiss me.”
“I know.”
“You made decisions for me and called them love.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
He looked back at me.
“Then tell me what to say.”
“Nothing.”
That was harder for Roman than any confession.
“Just hear me.”
He did.
For almost twenty minutes, I told him everything I had swallowed for years.
How I hated the bodyguards inside grocery stores.
How I stopped seeing friends because arranging security became humiliating.
How I felt ridiculous at prenatal appointments when he missed them.
How everyone treated his work as important and my loneliness as the cost of marrying him.
How pregnancy had made the cage smaller.
When I finished, Roman looked destroyed.
Not defensive.
Destroyed.
“I thought keeping you alive was the same as taking care of you.”
“It isn’t.”
“I know that now.”
This time, I let him say it.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Buzzed again.
Luca knocked.
Roman didn’t move.
“Answer it.”
“I’m listening to you.”
“Roman.”
He reluctantly checked the message.
His face changed.
“What?”
“Celeste is missing.”
My anger vanished beneath something colder.
“Since when?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Wasn’t she under federal protection?”
“She was supposed to be.”
He stood.
I saw the instinct take over.
Command.
Movement.
Violence.
Then he stopped himself.
He looked at me.
“I need to go.”
I nodded.
“Go.”
He stepped toward the door.
Then paused.
“I’ll tell you where I am.”
“You don’t have to report every movement.”
“I know.”
He gave a broken half-smile.
“I want to.”
After he left, Maya returned.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Still love him?”
I stared at the closed door.
“Yes.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“Extremely.”
Two hours later, federal agents arrived.
Agent Rebecca Hall introduced herself.
She was forty-six, calm, direct, and not remotely impressed by my last name.
“We believe Celeste Armand was taken by someone connected to Carlo Vascari.”
“Is Roman working with you?”
“He is now.”
That surprised me.
“When did he agree?”
“Approximately ninety minutes ago.”
My throat tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“He agreed to provide financial records and testimony regarding several organizations.”
“What happens to him?”
“Depends what he admits.”
My stomach dropped.
“He could be charged?”
“Yes.”
Roman had chosen cooperation.
Not because it guaranteed his safety.
Because I had asked for truth.
Before I could process that, Agent Hall placed a printed photograph on the table.
Celeste.
Alive.
Tied to a chair.
A newspaper in her lap.
Behind her was a concrete wall.
On the bottom of the photograph someone had written:
THE WIFE FOR THE WIDOW.
My blood turned cold.
Hall said, “They want you.”
“No.”
Maya grabbed my hand.
I stared at the photograph.
“Why?”
Agent Hall’s answer was terrifyingly simple.
“Because they understand Roman perfectly.”
I looked down at the message.
And realized the people threatening us believed exactly what Roman had always believed.
That I belonged to him.
That I was his weakness.
That I could be moved like property.
May you like
For the first time, I wanted to prove all of them wrong.
Including my husband.
