Chapter 2 - The Sovereign’s Study
The library of Blackmere House was a vast, two-story room lined with dark walnut bookshelves, ancient leather-bound volumes, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the crashing white waves of the Atlantic Ocean. A massive stone fireplace crackled in the corner, throwing warm orange light across heavy Persian rugs.
Nora stood near the edge of the rug, her hands clasped tightly in front of her uniform apron. She had spent ten minutes in the restroom trying to stop her hands from shaking, but the tremor remained deep within her bone marrow.
Roman Blackmere sat behind a massive oak desk. He had pulled off his suit jacket, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong wrists and a thick silver watch.
On the dark wood before him lay two items: the thin personnel file she had submitted six months ago, and a brand-new, thick red folder.
“Sit down, Nora,” Roman said. His voice was low, deep, and devoid of the sharp irritation she had expected.
Nora hesitated, then moved across the floor, sitting lightly on the very edge of the leather armchair opposite his desk. She kept her spine rigid, her heels together, ready to bolt if necessary.
Roman reached out and opened the red folder.
“Nora Vale,” he began smoothly, his eyes scanning the top page. “Born Eleanor Vance in Philadelphia. Graduated with honors from Temple University with a degree in accounting. Married in 2021 to Julian Vance.”
At the mention of the name Julian Vance, Nora’s breath hitched. A sharp, physical pain shot through her chest, as if someone had driven an ice pick between her ribs.
Roman observed the reaction, his gray eyes darkening.
“Julian Vance,” Roman continued, his tone turning colder than the ocean wind outside. “A high-ranking lieutenant in the Moretti family’s financial wing. A man known in certain circles for his charm, his intelligence, and his absolute ruthlessness behind closed doors.”
Roman leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his long fingers.
“Two years ago, Julian Vance stole four million dollars from his own organization’s offshore accounts. When the family discovered the discrepancy, Julian fled. But before he left the country, he ensured the family believed his quiet, dutiful wife was the one who held the encryption keys.”
Nora closed her eyes. The nightmare she had spent two years running from was being laid out on the mahogany desk between them, stripped of all its hidden shadows.
“I didn't know,” Nora whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackle of the fireplace. “I didn't know what he was doing. I was an accountant for a small logistics firm. He used my name, my signatures, my digital credentials without my permission. When I found out, I confronted him.”
She swallowed hard, her hand moving unconsciously toward her right ribs—where two bones had been broken three years ago.
“He beat me,” she said, her voice dropping into a flat, distant tone—the tone of someone describing a tragedy that had happened to a stranger. “He locked me in the basement for three days while he packed his bags. He told me that if I ever spoke to the police, or if I tried to run, he would tell the Morettis that I was the one who took their money. Then he vanished.”
Roman sat in absolute silence. The stillness in the room was heavy, suffocating.
“The Morettis came for me two weeks later,” Nora continued, looking at her hands in her lap. “I managed to escape through a fire exit in my apartment building twenty minutes before their men kicked the door down. I changed my name. I discarded my identification. I lived in women's shelters, worked cash jobs under the table, moving from city to city, always heading north.”
She looked up, meeting Roman’s intense gray gaze for the first time.
“Six months ago, I saw an opening for a housekeeping position at Blackmere House. I knew who you were, Mr. Blackmere. Everyone in the city knows who you are. I thought... I thought this was the one house in the state where the Moretti family would never dare to look. I thought if I hid in plain sight, under your roof, I would finally be safe.”
A quiet tear slipped down her cheek, but she did not wipe it away.
“My references were fake,” she said clearly. “I lied on my application. I am sorry for bringing my trouble into your home. I will pack my bag and leave immediately.”
She began to stand up.
“Sit down,” Roman commanded softly.
The authority in his voice was absolute, but it lacked cruelty. Nora froze, then slowly sank back into the leather chair.
Roman reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small black-and-white photograph. He slid it across the mahogany desk, face up.
Nora looked down.
The photograph showed a tall, handsome man with slicked-back dark hair and a sharp, expensive suit, stepping out of a hotel in downtown Providence.
Julian.
“He came back to the East Coast three days ago,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave into something dark and lethal. “He ran out of money in South America. He’s looking for the encryption keys, Nora. And he believes you still have them.”
Nora felt the world tilt around her. Her hands clutched the armrests of the chair as the room spun. Julian was here. In the city.
“He knows where I am?” she gasped, her eyes wide with terror.
“No,” Roman said smoothly, leaning forward over his desk until he was holding her terrified gaze. “He doesn't know. But the Morettis know he’s back. There is going to be a war on the streets within forty-eight hours.”
Roman stood up from his desk, walking slowly around the wood until he stood beside her chair. He was towering, imposing, a man who commanded an army of shadows.
“You lied on your application,” Roman said down to her. “In my organization, a lie is usually punished with immediate expulsion.”
He reached out, stopped his hand two inches short of her shoulder—giving her ample time to see the gesture—and gently rested his palm on the high back of her leather chair.
“However,” Roman continued softly, “no woman gets hit in my house. And no one who seeks sanctuary under the Blackmere name is ever handed over to monsters.”
Nora looked up at him through her tears. “What are you saying, Mr. Blackmere?”
May you like
Roman’s jaw tightened, the scar near his eyebrow standing out pale against his dark skin.
“I am saying your cleaning duties are finished, Eleanor. As of this moment, you are under my personal protection. You do not leave this estate. You do not answer the doors. And if Julian Vance sets one foot in this city... I will deliver his head to you on a silver tray.”
