Chapter 2 - The Entrance That Silenced Table Four
By 5:43 the next evening, Sadi was pacing the threadbare rug of her small, third-floor apartment in Rogers Park, convinced she was having a cardiovascular emergency.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared into the cheap full-length mirror hung over her closet door, adjusting the neckline of an emerald-green wrap dress made of heavy stretch velvet. She had bought it on clearance six months ago for an occasion that never came, convinced she would lose twenty pounds before ever letting the public see it. She hadn't lost a single pound.
Yet, as she looked at herself in the warm lamplight, the dress clung to her waist, hugged the wide flare of her hips, and accentuated her full bust in a manner that was unapologetically sensual. Her long, dark hair fell in loose, glossy waves around her shoulders, and she had applied just enough deep plum lipstick to make her mouth look bold.
"You are insane," she whispered to her reflection. "You have invited the devil to a country club."
A low, subterranean rumble shook the glass panes of her front window.
Sadi parted the plastic blinds and looked down. Idling in front of her dilapidated brick building was a massive, pitch-black armored Mercedes-Maybach SUV with tinted windows that absorbed the afternoon sun like a black hole. It looked less like a luxury vehicle and more like a presidential transport designed to survive an airstrike.
The rear door opened, and Roman Rossi stepped out onto the cracked asphalt.
The breath caught in Sadi’s throat.
Gone was the sweatpants-clad recluse of the early morning hours. Roman was dressed in a bespoke, midnight-blue three-piece suit cut from Italian wool so fine it shimmered under the dying sunlight. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the corded muscle of his neck, and a rose-gold Patek Philippe gleamed on his wrist. His dark hair was meticulously styled, his jaw freshly shaved, highlighting the sharp, predatory lines of his face. Two large men in matching black suits stood discreetly near the vehicle’s rear bumper, their eyes scanning the residential street with relentless precision.
Roman looked up, his gaze instantly locking onto the third-floor window where she stood behind the blinds. He didn't wave. He simply gave a curt, commanding nod.
Sadi grabbed her clutch, took one deep, ragged breath, and headed down the stairs.
When she pushed open the heavy glass door of the apartment lobby, the evening air felt cool against her skin. Roman stood waiting by the open door of the Maybach. As she approached, his dark eyes swept over her—starting from the silver heels she had bought specifically for the night, tracing the heavy curve of her hips, lingering on the cinched waist of the green velvet, and finally coming to rest on her face.
There was no mockery in his expression. No polite, patronizing smile. There was only a sudden, intense stillness in his eyes—a dark, simmering appreciation that made her skin prickle with heat.
"You look stunning, Sadi," Roman said, his voice smooth as aged bourbon.
"You clean up well yourself, Mr. Rossi," she replied, trying desperately to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Roman," he corrected softly, extending his hand. His fingers were warm, rough, and completely enveloped hers. "If we are engaged, you will call me Roman. And you will not flinch when I touch you."
He guided her into the plush leather interior of the SUV, which smelled of brand-new leather and expensive cologne, before sliding in beside her. The heavy door closed with a vault-like thud, instantly sealing out all sounds of the city.
The drive to the Naperville Country Club took forty-five minutes of tense, electric silence. Roman spent the first twenty minutes reading through encrypted documents on an iPad, occasionally issuing clipped, one-word instructions into an earpiece. But as the sprawling green lawns and faux-Tuscan architecture of the country club came into view, he put the tablet away and turned entirely toward her.
"Listen carefully," Roman commanded, leaning in slightly. "Your ex-boyfriend’s name is Derek Vance. He works as a junior analyst at a mid-tier commercial brokerage. He drives a leased German sedan he cannot afford, and he owes thirty-four thousand dollars in revolving credit card debt. He is a lightweight."
Sadi blinked in astonishment. "Did you run a full forensic background check on him today?"
"I don't enter an operation without intelligence," Roman replied coldly. "Your mother is Brenda. Your sister is Chloe. Chloe’s fiancé is an associate at an accounting firm who believes he is going to make partner next year. He won't." Roman reached into his breast pocket and produced a small, velvet-lined jeweler's box. "Give me your left hand."
Sadi’s breath hitched. "What is that?"
"A prop."
Roman flipped open the box. Resting on the black velvet was a flawless, five-carat emerald-cut diamond flanked by two tapered baguettes, set in solid platinum. It caught the interior ambient light and threw off brilliant, blinding shards of fire.
"Roman, no," Sadi whispered, pulling her hand back instinctively. "This... this looks like it costs more than my entire life."
"It costs three hundred and eighty thousand dollars," he stated without a flicker of emotion. "And it belongs on your finger. Hand."
It wasn't a request. Sadi slowly extended her left hand. Roman’s large fingers were surprisingly gentle as he slid the heavy platinum band onto her ring finger. It was a perfect, tailored fit. The sheer weight of the stone felt foreign and terrifying against her skin.
"Remember the narrative," Roman instructed, his thumb lightly brushing the back of her knuckles before releasing her. "We met six months ago at a private gallery showing in the West Loop. I pursued you for three months before you agreed to have dinner with me at Alinea. We got engaged last weekend at my estate in Lake Geneva. You are leaving your job to manage my private art collection."
"I'm a maid, Roman. Everyone in my family knows I scrub toilets for a living."
"You were an independent curator doing high-end residential consulting," Roman corrected with an icy finality. "Anyone who questions that narrative will be answering directly to me. Let’s go."
The Maybach pulled up to the country club's grand entrance, right behind a line of sensible sedans and modest SUVs. The valet took one look at the armored monstrosity, straightened his posture instantly, and rushed to open the passenger doors.
Roman stepped out first, buttoning his jacket, then turned to offer his arm to Sadi.
Taking a shuddering breath, Sadi stepped onto the red carpet. She linked her arm through his, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath the bespoke fabric. Together, they walked through the towering glass double doors and into the grand ballroom.
The reception hall was filled with the soft chatter of fifty people, clinking champagne flutes, and the lilting notes of a string quartet playing contemporary pop covers.
The moment Roman Rossi crossed the threshold with Sadi on his arm, the room underwent a violent atmospheric shift.
The chatter began to die out in concentric circles, starting near the entryway and rippling outward toward the banquet tables. Heads turned. Eyes widened.
Near the center of the room, standing at Table Four under a massive floral arch, Brenda Miller was holding court with the in-laws. She glanced toward the entrance, clearly preparing to deliver a scolding look for Sadi’s tardiness.
The look died on her face. Brenda's champagne glass tilted dangerously, spilling expensive vintage onto the white linen tablecloth.
Standing beside Brenda was Derek. He wore a trendy, tight-fitting tan suit and held the hand of his blonde, waif-like fiancée. Derek turned casually toward the doorway—and instantly froze. His jaw dropped, his drink dangling loosely from his fingers, his eyes glued to the voluptuous, radiant woman in the emerald velvet dress, and then to the terrifying, impossibly imposing titan walking beside her.
May you like
Roman didn't look at the crowd. He kept his head tilted slightly toward Sadi, offering her a rare, devastatingly handsome half-smile that made her knees feel weak.
"Keep your head up, Sadi," he murmured under his breath, audible only to her. "You own this room."
