Chapter 6 - The Breach
Pandemonium erupted across the ballroom. Women screamed, glass shattered as tables were overturned, and dozens of high-society guests scrambled for the side exits.
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
In one fluid, terrifying movement, he pulled a concealed firearm from beneath his tuxedo jacket, stepping entirely between me and the gunman.
“Marco,” Roman’s voice echoed through the chaotic room, icy, flat, and deadlier than the weapon in his hand. “You have three seconds to lower that weapon before I put a bullet through your throat.”
Marco—the scarred man—sneered, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “Your dead brother owed my crew two million dollars from his Detroit deals, Roman! You refused to pay! Now you’re spending millions on diamonds for this bitch while we rot?”
Marco aimed his gun directly at my chest.
Before he could pull the trigger, Roman fired.
A deafening BANG shattered the room. Marco collapsed to the polished marble floor, clutching his shoulder, his gun skittering across the tile. Roman’s guards tackled the remaining two intruders to the ground within seconds, disarming them with brutal, militaristic precision.
The entire violent encounter took less than ten seconds.
The room fell into a suffocating, terrified silence.
Roman stood over the bleeding intruder, his dark eyes devoid of any emotion, looking every bit the ruthless, terrifying Mafia Don the city feared.
Then, he turned around to look at me.
I was standing against a marble pillar, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my hands trembling as I stared at the blood on the floor, the drawn weapons, and the dark, deadly man standing before me.
The illusion was shattered.
This wasn't a sweet romance. This wasn't a harmless game of fake-dating to win custody of a teenage girl. This was Roman’s actual world—a world of blood, bullets, debts, and sudden, lethal violence.
Roman saw the terror in my eyes, and for a fraction of a second, a look of profound, agonizing pain flickered across his face. He lowered his gun, handing it to a guard.
“Clare...” he stepped toward me, reaching out a hand. “Are you hurt?”
I backed away from his touch, my heels clicking sharply against the marble. “Don't.”
“Clare, please—”
May you like
“I need to leave,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I need to go home. Now.”
Without waiting for his response, I turned and ran toward the front entrance, pulling off the heavy emerald necklace as I burst out into the cool night air.
