Chapter 5 - The Terrace Ambush
Roman was waiting exactly where he said he would be.
He stood in the dim corridor connecting the private salon to the garden terrace, his broad shoulders leaning against the wainscoting, his arms crossed over his chest. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but the moment the door swung open, his eyes snapped to Khloe with the speed of a sprung trap.
He straightened instantly, his sharp gaze cataloging every inch of her. He saw the pale cast of her skin, the rigid tension in her jaw, the way her fingers clutched her evening bag like a shield.
He covered the distance between them in three long strides, his hand shooting out to wrap around her upper arm, pulling her out of the hallway traffic and into the shadow of a heavy velvet curtain.
“What happened?” Roman demanded, his voice low, fierce, and entirely devoid of patience. “Who was in there? Did someone touch you?”
Khloe looked up into the winter-ocean blue of his eyes. For all his cruelty, for all his terrifying, sociopathic control, there was something undeniably solid about Roman Caster. He was a monster, yes, but he was her monster. He was the only thing standing between her and a shallow grave in the Pine Barrens.
“Nobody touched me,” she whispered, leaning closer so her words wouldn't carry. “Julian Vance and Sal Moretti are planning an interception.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. “Speak clearly.”
“Moretti and Julian met on the terrace while we were at the tables,” Khloe said, her voice dropping into the precise, factual cadence she used when reporting quarterly shipping deficits. “They know you have a private meeting with Don Castellani at the pavilion after the gala concludes. They intend to box in my car while you’re detained. They think I’m leverage, Roman. They think I’m your weakness.”
The word hung in the cold corridor like a live grenade.
Weakness.
In Roman’s world, a weakness was a terminal illness. Men who had weaknesses ended up in the concrete pilings of highway overpasses. For ten years, Roman had survived because he owned nothing he couldn't walk away from in thirty seconds if he smelled smoke. He had no wife, no children, no beloved pets, no sentimental family heirlooms.
He had an empire of shipping routes, a penthouse filled with minimalist furniture, and a quiet secretary who made his coffee black.
And now, two rival capos believed that quiet secretary was the keystone that could bring down his entire operation.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Roman’s face. It was the smile he wore right before he gave the order to burn a competitor’s warehouse to the ground with the night watchmen locked inside.
“My weakness,” Roman repeated, his voice vibrating with a dark, melodic amusement. He reached out, his thumb catching the curve of her lower lip, pressing down just enough to part her lips. “Is that what they think you are, Khloe?”
“Mr. Caster, please take this seriously,” she urged, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Moretti has eight crews operating on the perimeter. If they take the car—”
“They aren't taking anything,” Roman cut in smoothly. He dropped his hand from her face and slid it down to her waist, pulling her flush against his side. “Because we aren't waiting for the pavilion meeting. We’re leaving right now.”
“What about Don Castellani?”
“Castellani can choke on his communion wafers,” Roman said coldly. “Let’s go.”
He steered her down the service corridor toward the eastern terrace exit, avoiding the main ballroom where the music had shifted to a heavy, waltz tempo. The air grew colder as they approached the heavy French doors that opened out onto the sweeping stone balustrade overlooking the estate’s manicured gardens.
Roman pushed the doors open, stepping out into the crisp, midnight air.
The gardens below were shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by low landscape lanterns casting amber circles on the gravel pathways. The fountain in the center murmured quietly, its water black under the moonless sky.
They had taken five steps along the terrace when the crunch of gravel echoed from the shadows near the marble staircase.
Three men stepped into the light.
In the center was Julian Vance. His velvet jacket was unbuttoned, his tie askew, a heavy silver-plated semi-automatic pistol hanging loosely in his right hand. Flanking him were two heavy-set enforcers in dark windbreakers, their hands tucked suspiciously into their pockets.
“Leaving so soon, Roman?” Julian called out, his voice thick with liquor and bruised ego. “The night is young. We haven't even had the midnight toast yet.”
Roman didn't stop walking. He pushed Khloe slightly behind his right hip, his left hand remaining pinned to her waist while his right hand slipped smoothly beneath the lapel of his tuxedo.
“Step aside, Julian,” Roman said, his voice flat, conversational, and lethal. “You’ve lost enough money tonight. Don't lose your life over a bruised ego.”
Julian let out a ragged, unhinged laugh, stepping up the stone stairs until he was ten feet away from them. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Khloe, scanning the bare skin of her shoulders, the midnight silk clinging to her curves in the moonlight.
“You think you can walk into my father's house, humiliate me at the tables with your little office whore, and just drive away into the night?” Julian sneered, raising the pistol until the barrel was leveled directly at Roman’s forehead. “It doesn't work that way, Caster. The girl stays. She’s going to spend the weekend explaining to me exactly how she counted those cards. And when I’m done with her, maybe I’ll let my boys have a turn.”
The words were barely out of Julian’s mouth when Roman moved.
It wasn't a human reaction; it was a blur of violence honed through years of survival.
Roman didn't draw his gun. He lunged forward, closing the ten-foot gap in half a heartbeat. His left hand slammed into Julian’s wrist, driving the silver pistol upward just as a deafening CRACK shattered the night air, the bullet tearing harmlessly through the stone cornice of the roof.
In the same fluid motion, Roman’s right elbow cracked across Julian’s jaw with the force of a sledgehammer.
Julian’s head snapped back, blood and teeth spraying across the marble balustrade as he collapsed to the stone like an empty sack.
The two enforcers reacted instantly, reaching into their windbreakers for their concealed weapons.
“Khloe, down!” Roman roared.
Khloe didn't scream. She didn't freeze.
She dropped to her knees, the midnight silk tearing along the seam of the slit as she hit the cold stone. Her hand reached beneath the dress, her fingers finding the heavy brass Montblanc pen secured in her garter.
The first enforcer raised a sawed-off shotgun, leveling it at Roman’s exposed back while Roman was busy breaking the wrist of the second man.
Khloe didn't think about her mother. She didn't think about her student debt. She didn't think about the fact that she was an executive assistant who organized calendar invites for a living.
She drove herself upward off the stone, lunging with all the force in her body, and slammed the hardened steel nib of the brass pen straight into the hollow beneath the enforcer’s ear.
The man shrieked—a high, wet, agonized sound—and dropped the shotgun as blood erupted down the collar of his shirt.
Roman spun around, caught the shrieking man by the throat, and hurled him over the stone balustrade. The enforcer crashed into the frozen boxwood hedges thirty feet below with a sickening, final thud.
The second enforcer lay on the terrace floor, clutching his shattered forearm, whimpering in the dark.
The terrace went dead quiet.
The sound of the fountain trickled softly in the distance.
Roman stood over the fallen men, his tuxedo torn at the shoulder, his chest heaving, his knuckles dripping with Julian Vance’s blood.
Slowly, Roman turned his head.
Khloe was standing against the marble pillar, her dress ripped to mid-thigh, her dark hair tumbling over her face in wild, tangled waves. In her trembling, blood-spattered hand, she held the bent brass pen.
Roman stared at her.
The winter ocean in his eyes had melted completely, replaced by an inferno of pure, unadulterated awe.
“You stabbed him,” Roman breathed, his voice barely louder than the wind. “With my pen.”
Khloe looked down at the blood on her fingers, then up at him, her chest rising and falling in violent, ragged gasps.
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“You said... you said it was a non-negotiable asset, Mr. Caster.”
A low, wild laugh tore from Roman’s throat. He stepped across Julian Vance’s unconscious body, grabbed Khloe by the back of the neck, and pulled her into his chest.
