Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Cicero
The West Side of Chicago didn't tolerate an empty throne. By the end of the first week, the rumors of Roman Black’s disappearance had reached the ears of the commission, and the streets of Cicero were running hot with Moretti blood.
Dante Vance stood by the window of Roman’s private study, a glass of dark scotch in his hand, his face weary under the light of the green desk lamp. Roman sat in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, his white shirt open at the throat, a heavy black silk brace supporting his midsection beneath his wool vest. He was pale, but the authority in his posture was entirely restored.
"Sal Moretti is calling for a sit-down at the union hall on 14th Street," Dante said, not turning around. "He’s claiming Victoria is innocent. He says she was abducted from her apartment the night of the attack and that someone else inside your house did the sticking."
"Sal is a liar who’s running out of options," Roman said, his voice cold and steady as the click of a revolver. "He knows our crews have taken three of his distribution hubs in the last forty-eight hours. He wants a ceasefire so he can bring in the Detroit people to shore up his lines."
He looked toward the corner of the room, where Ava was standing with a small silver tray containing his afternoon medications and a fresh dressing kit. She had been silent during the meeting, her face a mask of professional detachment, though her ears were ringing with the names of families and crimes she had only ever seen in the late-night editions of the Tribune.
"Leave us, Dante," Roman commanded softly.
The enforcer nodded once, his eyes flicking to Ava with a silent warning before he slid out of the room, closing the double doors behind him with a soft, heavy thud.
Ava walked over to the desk, setting the tray down onto the polished mahogany. "You shouldn't be out of bed, Mr. Black. The internal sutures require another seven days before they can handle the stress of sitting upright for extended periods."
"My name is Roman, Ava," he said, his amber eyes tracking her movements as she prepared the sterile gauze. "And my sutures will have to adapt. I have a city to run."
"Your city won't do you much good if you develop an incisional hernia and bleed into your flanks," Ava countered, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his vest to access the dressing. She knelt beside his chair, her breath warm against his skin as she carefully peeled away the old medical tape.
The wound was healing, but it was an ugly, puckered thing—a reminder of how close the blade had come to his life.
Roman looked down at the top of her head, at the soft brown curls that had escaped her clip. "Dante told me about your sister. Lily."
Ava’s fingers froze on the edge of the gauze. "Dante needs to mind his own business."
"Everything inside this house is my business," Roman said, his voice dropping into a low, surprisingly gentle register. "He told me you stayed on the phone with Sophie for twelve minutes while your car wouldn't start. He told me you ran two red lights to get here before the county ambulance could even clear the station."
"I didn't do it for you," Ava said, her voice small and tight as she applied the fresh antiseptic. "I did it for the little girl who was crying in the dark. I know what that sounds like. I’ve lived it."
Roman reached down, his large, warm hand gently covering hers, stopping her fingers against his chest. His amber eyes were close now, so close Ava could see the tiny gold flecks in his irises. "It doesn't matter who you did it for, Ava. You saved the king. In my world, that means you get whatever you want. Name it. The tuition for your school? A house in Gold Coast? It’s yours."
Ava pulled her hand away from his grip, her blue eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce pride. "I don't want your blood money, Roman. I want to finish my clinicals, I want to get my license, and I want to go back to a world where people don't carry rifles in their hallways. You can't buy me out of my life."
May you like
She stood up, picking up her silver tray and turning toward the door. "Your next dose is at eight. Try not to break anything before then."
Roman watched her leave, a slow, dark smile touching the corner of his lips for the first time in seven days. "A waitress from the Blue Star," he murmured to himself, his fingers touching the clean white gauze over his heart. "Where the hell did Dante find a girl like that?"
