Chapter 3 - The Ambush at the Gate
Roman stood up so fast his leather chair crashed backward against the bookshelf. He didn't hesitate. He pulled a heavy stainless-steel revolver from the top drawer of his desk and tucked it securely into his waistband beneath his jacket.
"Claire. Stay here," Roman commanded, his voice cold and precise.
"No," Claire said instantly, standing up. "If Camille brought the FBI to your front gate at midnight, she isn't just trying to escape. She’s executing a plan. If they see Noah, or if they try to claim he's in an unsafe environment—"
Roman cut her off, stepping so close she could feel the intense heat radiating from him. "Miss Dawson, there are armed men at my gate. This is no longer a child psychology session. This is a war zone."
"And I am the only person here who officially represents Noah's legal grief therapy network!" Claire shot back, refusing to back down an inch. "If federal agents are involved, you firing a gun or acting like a mob boss will give them the exact legal pretense they need to take Noah into state custody tonight! Is that what you want?"
Roman stared at her, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and dark amazement. No one spoke to him like this. No one.
"You have a very sharp mouth, Claire Dawson," Roman growled.
"I have a very clear priority, Mr. DeLuca. Now put the gun away, put on your expensive suit coat, and let’s go handle the front gate like a man who owns the city."
A fraction of a second passed before the corner of Roman’s mouth flexed into a grim, dangerous half-smile. He reached down, uncocked the revolver, and locked it back in the desk drawer.
"Frank," Roman spoke into the intercom. "Hold them at the outer gate. Do not draw weapons, but do not open the iron barrier. I’m coming down."
Three minutes later, Roman’s black armored SUV rolled down the long, tree-lined driveway of the estate, stopping just behind the heavy iron security gates. Snow was beginning to fall in fat, heavy flakes, coating the windshield in a layer of white.
Claire sat in the passenger seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Outside, under the glare of the security floodlights, stood Camille Rossi, wearing a mink coat over her cream dress, shivering in the cold. Standing beside her were two men in dark overcoats, holding leather badge wallets aloft. Behind them sat a sleek grey sedan with government plates.
Roman stepped out of the SUV, his towering frame immediately cutting an imposing figure against the snow. Claire stepped out beside him, adjusting her damp coat.
"Roman!" Camille cried out, taking a step toward the iron bars. Her voice was frantic, pitched with artificial fear. "Thank God! These agents stopped me down the road—they said there was a tip about an unlawful detention on the property!"
One of the men stepped forward. "Roman DeLuca? I’m Special Agent Miller, FBI Child Exploitation and Human Trafficking Task Force. We received an emergency 911 report fifteen minutes ago indicating that an unregistered civilian—a Claire Dawson—was holding a minor against his will on these premises, supported by your armed security."
Claire felt a cold drip of anger down her spine. Camille hadn't just tried to flee; she had called in a false federal report to manufacture a raid, hoping to get Claire arrested and force CPS to remove Noah from the house before Roman could piece together the truth about Isabella’s letter.
Roman didn't look at the agents. He looked directly at Camille through the iron bars.
"You called the feds to my house, Camille?" Roman asked softly. His tone was almost conversational, yet terrifyingly heavy. "After you cleared out my wife’s room? After you threatened my son with a boarding school in Switzerland?"
Camille’s face went pale under the floodlights. "Roman... she’s lying to you! That woman manipulated Noah! She’s been secretly seeing him behind your back—"
"Miss Dawson runs the Dawson Center for Childhood Grief," Roman interrupted coldly. "Her services were authorized by the headmaster of St. Jude’s Academy six months ago to help my son cope with the loss of his mother. Her presence on my property tonight was requested by my son. And my son is currently asleep upstairs in his bed, guarded by retired federal Marshals."
Agent Miller frowned, looking from Roman to Claire. "Miss Dawson? Are you here under your own free will?"
"I am," Claire said, stepping forward so the floodlights caught her face. "And as a licensed child counselor and mandatory reporter in the State of New York, I suggest you take a very close look at the person who filed that emergency report, Agent Miller. Because Miss Rossi spent the evening psychological abusing an eight-year-old child and attempting to destroy evidence related to a three-year-old open death investigation."
Agent Miller’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Camille, whose composure was rapidly crumbling.
"Is this true, Miss Rossi?" Miller asked.
"No! They're lying! Roman is a criminal—he’s holding financial records in that house that belong to my father's estate!" Camille shrieked, her voice echoing off the surrounding trees.
Roman took a step closer to the gate. "Your father’s estate owes thirty million dollars to the Chicago Outfit, Camille. And you thought that by marrying me, taking over my household, and getting rid of my son, you could use my treasury to pay off his debts."
Roman looked at Agent Miller. "Agent Miller, you are currently standing on private property. If you have a signed judicial warrant from a federal magistrate, show it to me now. If you do not, turn your vehicle around, take this woman off my road, and tell your supervisor that if he wants to play games with my family, he had better bring a larger squad."
Agent Miller held Roman’s glare for three agonizing seconds. He knew the DeLuca name. He knew the army of high-priced attorneys that Roman kept on retainer. And most importantly, he saw that Claire Dawson—the alleged victim of detention—was standing voluntarily beside the Don, looking him dead in the eye.
Miller slowly lowered his badge wallet. "We’ll be in touch, Mr. DeLuca."
"I look forward to it," Roman said flatly.
As the agents led a protesting, hysterically crying Camille toward their sedan, Roman turned to Claire. The snow was falling heavier now, dusting his dark hair with white.
"That was only the first wave," Roman said softly, staring out at the dark road. "Camille was just the puppet. The Chicago Outfit is moving against my territory, and they think Noah is my weak point."
He turned his head and looked down at Claire. His slate-grey eyes were intense, unreadable, and focused entirely on her.
"You can't go back to your apartment tonight, Claire. They know who you are now. They know you hold Isabella’s letter."
Claire swallowed hard, feeling the chill of the winter wind bite through her clothes. "Are you ordering me to stay, Mr. DeLuca?"
May you like
Roman took a step toward her, closing the distance between them until she could hear the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing.
"I'm asking you," Roman said, his baritone voice dropping to a low, rough rumble. "For my son. And for me."
