Chapter 4 - The Morning After the Alibi
The drive back to Sadi’s apartment was executed in tense, total silence.
The city lights smeared against the armored glass of the SUV as the driver took an erratic, highly deliberate route through the backstreets of Chicago, constantly checking the rear-view mirrors for tailing vehicles. Roman remained glued to his encrypted phone, his fingers flying across the screen, barking short, ruthless commands to his lieutenants.
When the Maybach finally pulled up to the curb of her Rogers Park apartment, Roman didn't wait for his security detail. He stepped out, walked Sadi directly to the heavy glass entrance of her building, and stood in the dim glow of the exterior yellow lightbulb.
Sadi reached up, her fingers trembling as she attempted to slide the massive diamond ring off her finger. "Here. You need this back."
Roman caught her wrist. His grip was firm, yet entirely devoid of roughness.
"Keep it," he commanded quietly.
"Roman, I can't keep a four-hundred-thousand-dollar ring in a studio apartment with a broken window latch," she argued, her voice breathless. "The alibi is over. Your business is done."
"The Morettis lost two senior captains tonight in Cicero," Roman said, his voice dropping into a lethal, matter-of-fact register. "The police will spend the next forty-eight hours interviewing witnesses. Detectives will pull surveillance footage from that country club. They will see me holding your hand, kissing your cheek, and dancing with you under that chandelier. If you suddenly take that ring off, the alibi fractures."
He stepped closer, his shadow completely swallowing her under the flickering streetlight.
"Furthermore," he added, his dark eyes boring into hers, "your mother and your pathetic ex-boyfriend will be watching your social media. If the engagement vanishes overnight, they will know it was a lie. You will wear the ring, Sadi. Until I tell you otherwise."
Before she could respond, Roman released her wrist, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the armored SUV. The vehicle accelerated into the night, leaving Sadi standing alone on the cracked concrete steps, her heart hammering against her ribs, the heavy diamond burning like a brand against her skin.
She barely slept. Every creak of her old apartment building sounded like an intruder. Every siren wailing in the distance sounded like the authorities coming to drag her into an interrogation room.
By 5:00 the following morning, Sadi was up, dressed in her standard black maid’s uniform—a plain cotton button-up, thick black trousers, and non-slip service shoes. She pulled her hair back into its usual utilitarian bun, but she couldn't bring herself to remove the emerald-cut diamond. She slipped a plain band-aid over the stone to conceal it, grabbed her canvas tote bag, and took the early morning Red Line train toward the suburban estate.
When she arrived at the iron gates of the Rossi compound at 5:25 AM, the atmosphere was vastly different from the quiet, sleepy estate she was used to.
Four black SUVs with tinted windows were parked haphazardly across the manicured gravel driveway. Heavily armed security guards in tactical vests and carrying assault rifles patrolled the perimeter with Belgian Malinois attack dogs. The front limestone steps, usually immaculate, bore faint, dark smudges that smelled faintly of industrial bleach.
Sadi kept her head down, walked through the service entrance, and punched her timecard.
She walked into the commercial-grade kitchen. The counters were covered with half-empty espresso cups, maps of the South Side docks, and spent shell casings used as paperweights.
She took a deep, steadying breath, set her tote bag in the staff locker, and immediately went to work. She ground the dark roast beans, measured the precise quantity of filtered water, added two drops of cold mineral water, and a single grain of coarse sea salt into the small porcelain cup.
Carrying the silver tray with trembling hands, Sadi walked down the grand marble hallway toward the east wing study.
She raised her hand to knock on the heavy oak doors.
"Enter," a voice commanded from within.
Sadi pushed the heavy door open.
The study was massive, lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound legal tomes and antique firearms locked behind museum-grade glass. Roman was standing behind a massive mahogany desk, his back to the door, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the armed men patrolling his lawn.
He was wearing a fresh white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos of creeping vines and Latin script running along his skin. On the desk lay three separate burner phones, a folder marked MORETTI DISPOSITION, and a matte-black Glock 19 resting beside an open bottle of whiskey.
"Your espresso, Mr. Rossi," Sadi said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor as she approached the desk.
Roman turned around slowly.
His face was drawn with exhaustion, dark shadows lingering beneath his eyes, but his gaze was as sharp and dangerous as a freshly honed blade. He looked down at the silver tray, then slowly raised his eyes to her face. His gaze drifted down to her left hand, catching the beige band-aid wrapped awkwardly around her ring finger.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"Why are you wearing that uniform, Sadi?" Roman asked, his voice disturbingly calm.
"I... I’m on the schedule for the first shift, sir. The east wing needs vacuuming, and the laundry from the guest suites—"
"You are no longer a maid in this house," Roman interrupted, stepping around the desk.
Sadi froze. The silver tray rattled slightly in her hands. "Mr. Rossi... if I did something wrong last night—if I overstepped with your associates or failed the alibi—"
"You didn't fail," Roman said, stopping inches from her. He reached out, his large hand wrapping gently around the edge of the tray to steady it before setting it down onto the edge of his mahogany desk. Then, without a word, he reached for her left hand.
With deliberate slowness, Roman peeled the band-aid away, exposing the blinding five-carat diamond underneath. He threw the plastic strip into the wastebasket.
"At 3:00 this morning, federal prosecutors issued subpoenas for the Moretti syndicate," Roman explained, his voice low and intimate. "By noon today, every newspaper in Chicago will run front-page articles about the bloodbath in Cicero. And by two o'clock, the federal agents will arrive at these gates with a search warrant, looking to establish my whereabouts between eight and eleven last night."
May you like
Roman stepped into her personal space, his imposing frame casting a shadow over her.
"They will not find a maid who works for me," he whispered, his thumb caressing the platinum band on her finger. "They will find my fiancée. Living in my master suite. Wearing my ring. You are moving your belongings into the west wing today, Sadi. As of this morning, you are the lady of this house."
