Chapter 16 - The Wrath of Moretti
The heavy oak door of the crypt burst open, flooding the subterranean vault with the harsh, blinding glare of tactical flashlights. Marcus and three elite security operatives poured into the room, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the corners for threats.
Right behind them came Roman.
His face was a mask of cold, unmitigated terror and volcanic rage—an expression I had never seen directed at anyone, let alone myself. His overcoat was open, and a Sig Sauer pistol was gripped in his right hand with white-knuckled intensity. He scanned the empty room in a fraction of a second, his eyes landing on me standing alone beside the scarred wooden table.
In two massive strides, Roman closed the distance, shoving his pistol into his holster and grabbing my shoulders with hands that were visibly shaking.
“Harper!” he shouted, his voice cracking with a raw, primal panic that shattered every bit of his usual composure. “What the hell are you thinking? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how close you came to—”
“Roman, stop,” I gasped, my voice trembling as I looked up into his wild, frantic dark eyes. “I’m okay. I’m completely safe.”
“Safe?” Roman raged, his fingers tightening against my shoulders. “You vanish from the penthouse in the middle of the night, drive into a forgotten slum on the North Side, and walk into a subterranean crypt alone? Who was here? Where are they?”
“There was no one,” I lied instantly, the warning words of Claire echoing in my ears—if you hand this to Roman without understanding the board, he’ll tear his own organization apart. “Just... an anonymous tip about some old papers belonging to my father.”
Roman stopped. He stared down at me, his chest heaving, his dark eyes narrowing with razor-sharp suspicion. He didn't believe a single word. His gaze dropped from my face down to my hands, where I was clutching the manila folder against my chest like a shield.
“What’s in the folder, Harper?” he asked, his voice dropping into that dangerously quiet, lethal register that made his own men take an instinctive step backward.
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew that lying to Roman Moretti was a fatal game, but letting him tear through his own syndicate without proof—or worse, discovering that men he trusted had betrayed him—would unleash a war from which no one would walk away alive.
“It’s just personal correspondence,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “My father’s old tax records from before the merger. I wanted to see them.”
Roman stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. The silence in the crypt was deafening, broken only by the distant patter of rain and the heavy breathing of his security team. He could read me like an open book; he knew every micro-expression, every subtle shift in my posture. He knew I was hiding something.
Yet, because he loved me with a fierce, terrifying intensity that overrode even his paranoia, he didn't rip the folder from my hands.
“Marcus,” Roman said without breaking eye contact with me. “Sweep this entire basement. Check every drain, every vent, every exit tunnel. Find whoever left her down here.”
“Already on it, boss,” Marcus barked, waving his men deeper into the catacombs.
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Roman reached out, his warm hand gently cupping my cheek—the exact same gesture from the penthouse balcony, but now laced with a bitter, protective edge.
“We are going home, Harper,” he murmured, his voice husky and low. “And we are going to have a very long, very honest conversation about what secrets you’re keeping from me.”
