Chapter 3: The Wisconsin Sanctuary
The drive north to Geneva Lake, Wisconsin, took nearly three hours through the worst thunderstorm the state had seen in a decade. Roman drove his secondary, armored SUV, his hands steady on the wheel while Mara sat in the backseat, holding a sleeping Clara against her chest.
The little girl’s fever had spiked again during the trip, her breathing shallow and wheezing. Roman had used his secure satellite phone to call Dr. Michael Vance—a retired military surgeon who owed his life to Roman’s father and lived in rural Wisconsin.
By 3:00 AM, the SUV pulled through the hidden iron gates of a massive log-and-stone estate nestled deep within fifty acres of private pine forest. The lake house was a masterpiece of rustic security—built with reinforced timber, bulletproof thermal glass, and an independent power grid that hummed quietly in the basement.
Dr. Vance was already waiting in the kitchen, his medical bag spread across the granite island.
"Get her upstairs to the master suite," the old doctor ordered the moment Roman carried the child through the door wrapped in blankets.
For the next four hours, Roman and Mara stood side by side in the hallway outside the bedroom, listening to the muffled sounds of medical instruments and Clara’s occasional, soft cries. Mara was trembling with exhaustion, her uniform stained with warehouse dust and rain. She looked like she was about to collapse onto the hardwood floor.
Roman walked over to the hallway wet bar, poured a glass of brandy, and handed it to her.
"Drink it," he said, his voice lacking its usual coldness.
Mara took the glass, her fingers brushing against his. Her skin was freezing. She took a sip, coughing slightly as the amber liquid burned her throat, but a faint pink color returned to her cheeks.
"You should change out of that uniform," Roman noted, his eyes tracking the wet fabric of her black dress. "There are clothes in the wardrobe upstairs. My mother’s old things from when she stayed here. They’ll be too large, but they’re dry."
"I’m fine, Mr. DeLuca," she muttered, her eyes fixed on the bedroom door.
"Roman," he corrected her. "Inside this house, my name is Roman. And you are no longer my servant, Mara. You are the woman who kept my brother's bloodline alive. You are an honored guest."
Before she could answer, Dr. Vance stepped out of the room, pulling off his latex gloves. His face was tired but relieved.
"The infection was severe, but the antibiotics she was given—the ones you 'borrowed' from the mansion, I assume?—saved her life," the doctor said, nodding at Mara. "I’ve cleared the necrotic tissue from the wound and started a high-dose penicillin drip. Her fever is already dropping. She’s sleeping naturally now."
Mara let out a breath that sounded like a prayer, her shoulders dropping as she leaned against the wall. "Thank God."
"She’ll need constant monitoring for the next two weeks," Dr. Vance added, turning to Roman. "She can't travel, Roman. And she needs absolute quiet. No stress."
"She stays here," Roman said firmly. "I’ll handle the security myself. Michael, thank you. There is a bag in my trunk with your payment. Double what we agreed on."
The doctor nodded, packed his bags, and left through the garage corridor.
Once the house was silent again, Roman turned to Mara. "Go sleep, Mara. I will watch her for the rest of the morning."
She looked at him, her dark blond eyes searching his face for any sign of the ruthless mob boss she had feared for the last seven months. All she found was a uncle who looked like he had finally found his way out of a tomb.
"We watch her together," she said stubbornly, crossing her full arms over her chest. "I’ve watched her for three years, Roman. I’m not stopping now."
A small, genuine smile touched the corners of Roman’s mouth—a rare sight that would have terrified his underlings in Chicago. "You are an incredibly difficult woman to command, Mara Ellis."
"Good," she said, and walked back into the bedroom to sit by Clara's side.
As the morning light began to filter through the pine trees outside, Roman sat in a high-backed chair across from the bed. He watched the steady rise and fall of his niece’s chest, and he watched Mara, whose eyes were heavy with sleep but whose hand never left the child’s small leg.
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For the first time in three years, the ghost of Leo DeLuca didn't feel like a weight on Roman's shoulders. It felt like a blessing. But deep in his gut, Roman knew that back in Chicago, the clock was ticking. Dominic would notice his absence by noon. The Marcones would notice the security shift.
The storm wasn't over. It had just moved to Wisconsin.
