Chapter 9 - Blood on the Marble and the War to Protect Our Child
For the next two months, the mountain fortress became our sanctuary and our command post.
I watched a side of Roman I had never witnessed during our high-society life in New York. He didn't spend his days issuing execution orders or counting dirty money. He sat for twelve hours a day with federal prosecutors via encrypted satellite uplinks, turning over twenty years of syndicate intelligence, dismantling cartel smuggling routes, and legally transferring his billions into blind trusts for clean infrastructure investments.
He was bleeding his own empire dry to buy our freedom.
Yet, despite his relentless work, he never missed a single meal with me. Every evening at seven, he knocked three times—that familiar, gentle rhythm—and carried a tray of food prepared specifically to meet my nutritional needs.
He never forced himself into my space. He slept on the leather sofa in the adjoining library, leaving the bedroom entirely to me.
One snowy evening in late January, as the wind howled around the mountain peaks, a sharp kick against my ribs made me gasp aloud.
Roman, who was reading legal briefs across the room, was at my side in an instant.
“What’s wrong? Is it pain? Sofia, get the doctor—”
“No, Roman, wait,” I said, catching his sleeve. “She’s just... she’s kicking very hard tonight.”
Roman froze. His eyes lowered to my swollen belly beneath my white sweater.
“May I?” he asked, his voice hesitant, almost timid—a tone that seemed impossible for a man who commanded an army.
I nodded slowly.
Roman rested his large, warm hand against the side of my stomach. A second later, our daughter kicked directly against his palm.
Roman’s breath caught. His eyes widened, shining with sudden, unshed tears. He didn't move an inch, holding his hand against my body as if anchored to the only real thing in the universe.
“She’s strong,” he whispered, a wondrous smile breaking across his lips—the first genuine smile I had seen from him in years.
“She gets that from you,” I murmured, watching the firelight dance across his sharp cheekbones.
Roman looked up, his face inches from mine. The hostility, the fear, and the betrayal of the past months seemed to evaporate into the warm air between us.
“I’m sorry, Evelyn,” he breathed. “For every tear. For every locked door. For making you think you had to run to save our child.”
May you like
Before I could answer, the piercing scream of the estate’s perimeter alarms shattered the night. The lights flickered once, died, and were instantly replaced by the dull red glow of emergency backup power.
A burst of heavy gunfire rattled from the lower courtyard.
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