Enter Chapter Two to discover how the rest of the story unfolds at last.

-5-

The quiet, sunlit corridor of Bellamy House suddenly felt like a pressure cooker about to blow. Harper stood frozen against the wainscoted wall, her fingernails digging deep into the palms of her hands as the name Marcus Vance echoed in her head like a siren warning of an impending wreck.

Roman Moretti didn't move an inch, but his entire body went rigid. The relaxed, confident posture of a powerful man in his own domain vanished, replaced by the coiled, lethal stillness of a wolf scenting an intruder in its territory.

“Harper,” Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm, though a muscle ticked along his sharply defined jawline. “Who is Marcus Vance?”

Harper swallowed hard, tasting the metallic copper of fear at the back of her throat. She couldn't tell him the truth. If Roman knew about the federal wire fraud case, the underground forensic accounting firm she used to work for, or the multi-million-dollar syndicate she had accidentally helped expose before going into deep hiding, he would throw her out onto the street before she could blink. Men like Roman Moretti didn't shelter federal whistleblowers; they eliminated liabilities.

“He’s... he’s nobody,” Harper stammered, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to steady it. “Just... an old landlord. A bad debt. I owe him money from my previous apartment. He’s just here to harass me.”

Roman stared down at her. His dark, intelligent eyes swept over her pale face, tracking every micro-tremor in her lips, every bead of sweat forming along her hairline. He wasn't a man who believed in convenient coincidences, and he certainly wasn't a man who missed when someone was lying to his face.

“People to whom you owe money do not send three men in bespoke Italian suits to a Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan at eleven in the morning,” Roman pointed out, his tone dropping an octave. He turned his gaze toward Silas. “Where are they now?”

“Sitting at a corner table in the main dining room, boss,” Silas reported, his massive arms crossed over his chest. “They refused to order drinks. They’re flashing federal badges under the table to the maître d’ and demanding immediate access to the private residential quarters upstairs. They claim Harper is wanted for questioning regarding an ongoing federal investigation.”

Federal investigation.

The words hit Harper like a physical blow. Her knees buckled slightly, and she reached out, grabbing the edge of a mahogany console table to steady herself. They hadn't given up. Marcus Vance had spent three years tearing through the eastern seaboard looking for her, convinced she had walked away with the master decryption keys to his illegal offshore accounts. If Marcus got his hands on her, he wouldn't arrest her—he would make sure she disappeared into the bottom of the East River before she ever saw the inside of a courtroom.

“Federal,” Roman repeated, tasting the word on his tongue as if it were something foul. He looked back at Harper, his gaze sharpening into something intensely protective and utterly terrifying. “You’re hiding from the federal government.”

“I’m not a criminal!” Harper cried out, tears of absolute panic finally spilling over her lashes. “I didn't steal anything, Roman! I just... I saw things I shouldn't have seen, and when the feds got corrupted, I ran. If Marcus Vance takes me, I’m dead.”

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute.

Roman didn't yell. He didn't ask a million frantic questions. He simply reached out, his warm, strong hand gripping her trembling shoulder, anchoring her to the floor.

“Silas,” Roman commanded, never breaking eye contact with Harper.

“Boss?”

“Take two men from the back security detail. Go down to the main dining room, politely inform Mr. Vance and his associates that Bellamy House is private property, and escort them off the premises.”

Silas’s lips twitched into a grim, menacing smile. “And if they flash their federal badges and refuse to leave?”

“Then remind them,” Roman said softly, his voice a low, lethal hum, “that federal jurisdiction ends where my front door begins. And if they take one step toward the residential elevator, break their legs.”

“Gladly,” Silas muttered, turning sharply on his heel and striding down the corridor toward the service stairs.

“Roman, no!” Harper gasped, grabbing his sleeve. “You can’t assault federal agents! That’s an act of war! They’ll bring down the entire FBI on your head!”

“Let them try,” Roman replied, his dark eyes burning with an unyielding, arrogant fury. He reached up, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear from her cheek. The gesture was shockingly tender, completely at odds with the violent orders he had just given. “In this city, Harper, I am the law. And nobody walks into my house and hunts the people under my protection.”

Before Harper could argue further, a sudden, sharp commotion echoed from the stairwell below—the sound of raised voices, a crash of splintering wood, and Silas’s deep, rumbling laugh.

Roman’s expression hardened into granite. He pulled Harper gently behind him, placing his broad shoulders squarely between her and the hallway.