Chapter 8 - THE SHADOW OF VICTORY
The victory at the Syndicate Council cemented Roman and Mave's position as the undisputed power couple of the city's underworld.
No one questioned Mave's place anymore. The stories of the "Diner Queen" who had audited the South Side mob out of three million dollars spread through every family in the region.
However, victory in the underworld always came with a price.
Two weeks after the Council meeting, winter set in with a vengeance. Heavy snow blanketed Fourth Street, turning the city into a quiet, white wonderland.
Inside Mave's Bistro, the fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warm golden shadows over the velvet booths.
It was 11:30 p.m., after closing. The staff had gone home, and Mave sat at table four, sipping a hot cup of chamomile tea, her feet resting on a plush footstool.
She was seven weeks pregnant.
They hadn't announced it to anyone yet—only Roman, Mave, and her doctor knew. The news had brought a soft, profound gentle joy into Roman's hard eyes that made Mave fall in love with him all over again.
The back office door opened, and Roman walked out. He had shed his jacket, wearing a charcoal wool sweater, his dark hair slightly messy, looking completely relaxed in the quiet restaurant.
He walked over to booth four, sat beside her, and gently rested his large hand over her stomach, feeling the soft warmth beneath her wool dress.
"How are you feeling?" Roman asked softly, leaning down to press a kiss against her temple.
"Tired," Mave admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder. "And hungry. I want a fried egg sandwich on cheap white bread."
Roman let out a low laugh. "I will personally go into the kitchen and make you the finest fried egg sandwich in New York."
"No truffles," Mave warned, pointing a finger at him. "Just grease and American cheese. Like Arty used to make."
"Your wish is my command, Mrs. Costa," Roman said, rising with a smile and walking toward the kitchen doors.
Just as the kitchen doors swung shut, the glass front window of the restaurant shattered.
CRASH!
A heavy black smoke grenade bounced across the oak floor, exploding instantly into a thick, suffocating cloud of white tear gas.
Mave gasped, coughing violently as the stinging smoke hit her lungs and eyes. She fell off the booth seat, scrambling onto her hands and knees beneath the table.
"Roman!" she screamed through the smoke.
The front door was kicked off its hinges. Three men wearing tactical gas masks and dark clothing rushed into the dining room. They didn't shoot—they carried thick leather restraints and a heavy burlap hood.
It wasn't a hit squad. It was a kidnapping play.
Julian Vane—having lost everything at the Council meeting, operating as an outlaw with nothing left to lose—stepped through the broken front door wearing a gas mask, holding a heavy shotgun.
"Find her!" Julian's muffled voice barked through the mask. "Grab the bitch! We use her to trade for the docks!"
Mave covered her mouth with her sleeve, staying low beneath booth four, her heart hammering against her ribs like a sledgehammer. She had to protect her baby. She couldn't let them touch her.
She looked around in the blinding white smoke. On the floor beside her hand lay a heavy, iron-cast doorstop shaped like a anchor.
She closed her hand around the cold iron handle.
An attacker's heavy boots stopped right beside booth four. He bent down, grabbing Mave's arm to drag her out.
Mave didn't scream. She swung the heavy iron anchor with every ounce of strength in her size-16 frame, slamming it directly into the side of the attacker's knee.
CRACK!
The man shrieked in agony, his knee snapping backward as he collapsed onto the floor.
Before the second attacker could raise his weapon, the kitchen doors burst open with explosive force.
Roman emerged through the white smoke like a demon rising from hell. He didn't care about the tear gas. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, burning with a terrifying, apocalyptic fury that transcended human limits.
He grabbed the second attacker by his throat, lifted him clean off the floor, and smashed his head directly through the heavy marble bar counter, crushing the man's skull instantly.
Julian Vane panicked, raising his shotgun toward Roman through the smoke. "Die, you bastard!"
Roman didn't dodge. He sprinted straight through the barrel of the gun, grabbed the iron barrel with his bare hand, shoved it upward as Julian pulled the trigger—the blast shattering the ceiling plaster—and then drove his fist straight into Julian's throat.
Julian crumpled onto the floor, clutching his crushed windpipe, gasping helplessly for air as his gas mask popped off.
Roman stood over him, his chest heaving, his face black with soot and tears from the gas. He drew his handgun, racking the slide, leveling the barrel directly between Julian's eyes.
"No!" Mave screamed, bursting out from beneath booth four, rushing through the smoke to grab Roman's arm. "Roman! Stop!"
Roman froze, his finger tightening on the trigger, his dark eyes fixed on the dying man on the floor.
"Don't do it!" Mave begged, tears streaming down her face as she pulled on his arm. "He's defeated! Don't do this in front of our baby!"
The word baby hit Roman like a physical blow.
His hand trembled. The absolute, murderous darkness in his eyes flickered, fighting against the desperate, loving reality of her voice.
May you like
Slowly, agonizingly, Roman lowered the gun.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, turned away from Julian, and pulled Mave fiercely into his arms, holding her so tight she could barely breathe, burying his face in her neck as the sirens began to wail in the distance.
