Chapter 4 - House of Wolves
The Romano estate was not located within the glittering confines of the city. It sat twenty miles north, hidden beyond wrought-iron gates, thick stands of black pine, and three separate security checkpoints manned by men with assault rifles and tactical vests.
It was a sprawling, stone manor that looked as if it had been transplanted directly from northern Italy, complete with slate roofs, high arched windows, and courtyards paved with cobblestones. To Lena, riding in the back of Victor’s armored Maybach with tinted bulletproof glass, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress preparing for a siege.
The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, bleeding a dull, bruised purple into the sky.
Lena pressed her hands against her thighs, trying to stop the trembling. Her phone was dead. Dmitri had confirmed forty minutes ago that her mother was admitted to the private pavilion, hooked up to an advanced ventilator, and stabilized. Daniel was sitting in a private waiting lounge eating food brought by a nurse.
They were alive. But Lena knew she was not free.
The car stopped before the grand entrance. The front door of the vehicle was opened by a guard, and Victor stepped out first, extending a hand back toward her.
Lena hesitated, looking at his broad, scarred palm.
“You have two choices, Miss Hart,” Victor said, his tone even as the cold morning wind stirred his dark hair. “You can step out on your own, or I can have my men carry you. But you are not returning to your apartment. Not until I know who signed the contract on my life.”
Lena ignored his outstretched hand, gathered what was left of her dignity, and climbed out of the car on her own. Her legs were stiff, her cheap shoes damp from the morning dew.
“I told you everything I know,” Lena said, her teeth chattering slightly in the chill. “Clara and Leon. They were talking about the toast. They knew.”
“Knowing a conversation took place is not the same as having evidence that will hold up before the Five Families Council,” Victor said, turning toward the sweeping stone steps. “Come.”
Inside, the estate was warm, smelling of lemon wax, ancient paper, and dark roast espresso. A grandfather clock ticked with heavy, rhythmic thuds in the foyer.
An older woman in a neat, charcoal wool dress appeared from the hallway, dipping her head respectfully. “Good morning, Signor Romano. We received Dmitri’s call. The guest suite in the west wing is prepared.”
“Thank you, Teresa,” Victor said. “Bring food to the library. Coffee for me, tea and whatever Miss Hart desires.”
“I desire to go to the hospital,” Lena interjected, her voice rising. “My brother has never been away from me for more than a few hours. He doesn't understand what’s happening. He’s probably terrified.”
Victor stopped in the center of the grand foyer, turning to face her.
“Your brother is currently guarded by four ex-special forces operatives who are paid six figures a year to ensure his heart keeps beating,” Victor said, stepping toward her until the shadow of his towering frame fell across her face. “If you walk into that hospital right now, whoever tried to kill me will realize you survived. They will realize you spoke to me. And they will not hesitate to cut your throat, your brother’s throat, and pull the plug on your mother’s machine just to tie off the loose end.”
Lena’s breath caught in her throat. The sheer, terrifying reality of the world she had collided with crashed down on her once more.
“You think this is a game?” Victor continued, his voice dropping low, his slate-gray eyes boring into hers. “You think because you are innocent, the world will protect you? In this city, innocence is not a shield, Miss Hart. It is currency. And right now, yours is the only thing keeping you breathing. You stay here. Under my roof. Under my protection. Until I unravel this web.”
Before Lena could respond, the heavy front doors swung open behind them, accompanied by the sharp, angry clack of designer heels.
Clara marched into the foyer, her emerald evening gown crumpled at the hem, her diamond necklace flashing under the chandelier. Her father, Harrison Whitmore—a towering, silver-haired patrician with the arrogant sneer of old money—followed directly behind her, looking furious.
“Victor!” Harrison’s voice boomed across the marble foyer. “What is the meaning of this outrage? You sealed the Grandeur Hotel like a common crime scene! You subjected my daughter to an interrogation by your thugs, and now I hear you’ve brought a hotel servant into your ancestral home?”
Clara stepped up beside her father, crossing her arms, her eyes flashing with pure malice as she glared at Lena. “She belongs in a holding cell, Victor! Leon has been on the phone with the district attorney all morning. We have her fingerprints! We have the poison! The narrative is clean, it protects the family’s public image, and it closes the matter! Why are you dragging this out?”
Victor turned slowly to face them.
The air in the room shifted. Lena had seen angry men before—landlords pounding on doors, drunken patrons at the diners where she used to bus tables—but Victor’s anger was something fundamentally different. It was silent. It was a vacuum that sucked all the heat out of the room.
“Harrison,” Victor said, his tone shockingly mild. “You speak loudly in my father’s house.”
Harrison Whitmore’s jaw tightened, his aristocratic composure cracking slightly under Victor’s dead-eyed stare. “I speak as your future father-in-law, Victor. And as the man whose banks are financing your maritime expansion. You cannot insult my daughter by entertaining the paranoid delusions of a scrubwoman.”
“The scrubwoman saved my life,” Victor stated simply.
“She staged the entire thing!” Clara shouted, stepping toward Victor, her voice shrill. “Can’t you see that? She set the glass, then made a scene so she could extort you for money! Look at her, Victor! She’s a parasite from the slums! How much is she asking for? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? Write her a check and have Dmitri throw her out on the curb!”
Lena felt something snap inside her. The exhaustion, the terror, the humiliation of being discussed like garbage on the floor—it all burned away into a sharp, crystalline fury.
“I didn't ask for a single penny,” Lena said, her voice ringing out clear and loud, shocking both Clara and Harrison into silence.
Lena stepped forward, standing side-by-side with Victor Romano, refusing to shrink.
“I didn't ask for your money,” Lena continued, staring straight into Clara’s vicious eyes. “I asked him to save my family. You, on the other hand… you were standing at that gala with a diamond the size of an acorn on your finger, watching your fiancé reach for a drink you knew was full of poison. You didn't flinch. You didn't scream. You smiled. I saw it. And no amount of your father’s bank money is going to erase what I saw on your face.”
Clara gasped, raising a hand as if to strike Lena across the face. “You insolent little—”
Before Clara’s hand could travel two inches, Victor caught her wrist in mid-air.
His grip was not gentle. Clara let out a sharp cry of pain as Victor’s fingers locked around her delicate bones like steel cuffs.
“You raise a hand in my home again, Clara,” Victor whispered, his voice dark and lethal, “and I will break it.”
He released her with a dismissive shove. Clara stumbled back against her father, clutching her wrist, her face pale with shock and humiliation.
“Leon Mercer is currently being detained in the city offices,” Victor said, turning his back on them. “He will remain there until my forensics team finishes analyzing the private cellar logs. As for you, Harrison… take your daughter back to your estate. Do not leave the city. Do not speak to the press. If I find out either of you has contacted a single member of the Five Families Council before I call the meeting, I will consider it an act of war.”
Harrison’s face turned an ugly shade of mottled red. “You’re making a catastrophic mistake, Romano. The Whitmore family is not something you can discard like a street dog!”
“Get out,” Victor said.
Two armed guards immediately stepped between the Whitmores and the inner hallway, their hands unbuttoning their holsters.
Harrison swallowed hard, grabbed his daughter by the arm, and turned on his heel. Clara threw one last, venomous look over her shoulder at Lena—a look that promised murder—before the massive oak doors slammed shut behind them.
Silence returned to the foyer.
Lena stood shivering, her adrenaline crashing hard, leaving her hollow and dizzy. She swayed slightly on her feet.
Victor turned back to her. His gray eyes took in her pale face, her torn uniform, and the dark circles of utter exhaustion bruised beneath her eyes.
“Teresa,” Victor called softly.
The housekeeper appeared from the shadows of the archway. “Yes, signor?”
May you like
“Take Miss Hart upstairs. Draw a warm bath. Find her clean clothes. Ensure she eats.” Victor paused, his gaze lingering on Lena’s bruised hand, still bound in his blood-stained handkerchief. “And bring her to my study at sunset. We have a war to plan.”
***
