Chapter 4 - The Vultures Circle
Roman did not release Khloe's arm as they reached the bottom of the marble staircase; instead, his fingers tightened until the heat of his palm seared through the cool silk.
He shifted his broad shoulders slightly forward, positioning his body to block the direct line of sight between Khloe and the clusters of made men who were shamelessly craning their necks.
"You didn't mention she could walk like that, Roman," a voice purred from the edge of the champagne station.
It was Dominic Bianchi, an underboss who controlled the illegal gaming houses along the riverfront.
Dominic was fifty, his hair dyed jet-black, wearing a tuxedo with diamond studs that looked gaudy against his bloated chest.
His gaze swept over Khloe's neckline with an insolence that made the muscle in Roman's jaw twitch.
"Dominic," Roman said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection.
"I wasn't aware your doctors cleared you for public gatherings after the docks incident last spring."
Dominic's smile thinned, a flash of irritation breaking through his oily composure.
"A minor cardiac scare, nothing more," Dominic said, taking a step closer and extending a heavy, ring-covered hand toward Khloe.
"And who is this dark jewel you've been keeping hidden from the Commission? I thought I knew every face on your executive floor, Caster."
Khloe did not move.
She did not reach out to take the man's hand.
She stood perfectly erect, her hands resting lightly against the satin clutch, her amber eyes gazing straight through Dominic as if he were an empty coat rack.
"She doesn't shake hands with subordinates," Roman cut in, his voice dropping into a menacing whisper that cut through the low hum of the ballroom.
"And her name is none of your business."
Dominic froze, his outstretched hand suspended awkwardly in the space between them.
The smile completely vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, mottled flush around his collar.
"We're all brothers under Don Moretti's roof tonight, Roman," Dominic warned softly.
"Disrespect at the annual dinner has a heavy price."
"Then don't push your luck, old man," Roman said, stepping past him without a backward glance.
He guided Khloe toward a corner alcove beneath a grand arch of polished black marble, away from the heaviest flow of the crowd.
The moment they were sheltered by the stone pillars, Roman spun around to face her, his height casting a heavy shadow over her features.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice a harsh, suppressed hiss.
Khloe looked up, meeting his turbulent gray eyes with absolute composure.
"What was what, Mr. Caster?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Roman said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"The dress. The hair. The way you're looking at these men."
Khloe let out a quiet, humorless breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
"I am looking at the wall, Mr. Caster."
"You ordered me to wear the contents of the box."
"I am wearing the contents of the box."
"You ordered me not to style my hair like an old woman."
"My hair is down."
"If you find the result objectionable, the responsibility rests entirely with the person who purchased the wardrobe."
Roman opened his mouth to snap a retort, but the words withered on his tongue.
She was right.
He had picked the dress out of a high-end lookbook in thirty seconds while reviewing customs tariffs, deliberately picking something provocative because he thought it would look grotesque and ill-fitting on a frumpy office clerk.
He had wanted to humiliate her to mock the room.
Instead, the dress looked as if it had been custom-molded to her flesh by a master couturier, turning her into the center of gravity for every violent man in the state.
"You could have said no," Roman muttered, though the argument was so weak even he sounded disgusted by it.
"I did say no, Mr. Caster," Khloe replied, her voice dropping into a sharp, icy whisper that pierced his armor.
"Three times."
"And you threatened to ruin my life, destroy my career, and leave my private matters unfunded if I did not get into your car."
"So do not lecture me about choices when you gave me none."
Roman stared at her, stunned by the sheer defiance burning in her amber eyes.
For two years, he had believed she was an empty shell who lived on tea and filing spreadsheets.
He had never seen the fire beneath the ice.
Before he could respond, the soft, rhythmic clapping of two hands echoed from the marble corridor behind them.
"Bravo, Roman. Truly, an inspiring display of domestic harmony."
The crowd parted instantly, men stepping aside with hasty, subservient bows.
Marco Moretti strolled into the alcove.
He was twenty-eight, dressed in a bespoke white dinner jacket that contrasted sharply with his slicked-back dark hair and pale, predatory features.
Marco was the only son of Don Bernardo Moretti, a spoiled sadist who had built a reputation for burning down businesses whose owners hesitated to kiss his signet ring.
Two massive bodyguards flanked him, their hands resting inside their jackets.
Marco's eyes were not on Roman.
They were pinned entirely on Khloe, roving over the exposed curve of her back and the slit of the midnight silk with obscene fascination.
"You always did have an eye for fine imports, Caster," Marco said, his tongue darting out to wet his upper lip.
"Introduce us."
Roman immediately stepped half a pace to his right, blocking Marco's view of Khloe's torso.
"She isn't an import, Marco," Roman said, his tone turning into pure venom.
"And she isn't interested in speaking to you."
Marco's smile did not waver, but his dark eyes grew cold and sharp like broken obsidian.
"Is that so?" Marco asked, ignoring Roman completely and leaning around his broad frame to address Khloe directly.
"A woman this breathtaking shouldn't be hidden in the corner like contraband, sweetheart."
"The Caster family runs freight."
"My family runs the city."
"Come have a glass of vintage Cristal at my father's table."
"Let's see if Roman's conversational skills are as dull as his logistics reports."
Khloe felt Roman's entire muscular frame lock into place.
He was ready to draw the concealed weapon nestled beneath his left armpit.
She knew the syndicate laws better than Roman thought she did; she had transcribed the wiretap summaries and read the leaked intelligence files.
If Roman drew a weapon in the presence of Don Moretti's heir during the truce of the Winter Gala, the entire Caster syndicate would be marked for total extermination before midnight.
Her mother's clinic would be raided.
Everything would burn.
Before Roman could throw a punch that would ignite a gang war, Khloe took a calm step forward, moving out from behind Roman's shoulder.
She looked Marco Moretti dead in the eyes, her expression completely flat, devoid of fear, interest, or flattery.
"Mr. Moretti," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the quieted alcove.
"I have spent the last three hours observing the vintage of your champagne from across the hall."
"The oxidation on the corks suggests the cellar flooded during the October storm."
"I prefer not to drink vinegar."
"And as for your father's table, I am currently on the clock as Mr. Caster's executive assistant."
"My billing rate for non-administrative consultations is five thousand dollars an hour, payable in advance to a blind trust."
"I doubt your allowance covers the invoice."
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers who had gathered near the archway.
Marco Moretti stood frozen, his smirk completely disintegrating into a mask of pure, humiliated shock.
Nobody spoke to him like that.
Not the police chiefs, not the judges, and certainly not an unarmed woman standing in the center of his father's estate.
Behind her, Roman had to clamp his teeth together to prevent a dark, vicious laugh from escaping his throat.
She hadn't just rejected the syndicate's crown prince.
She had dissected him with the cold precision of an auditor.
Marco's face turned a violent, blotchy crimson, his fingers twitching toward the lapel of his white jacket.
"You little bitch—" Marco hissed, taking a sudden step toward her.
In a fraction of a second, Roman was there.
May you like
His left hand caught Marco by the throat, slamming the young mobster back against the marble pillar with an impact that rattled the crystal sconces overhead.
The entire ballroom went instantly silent again, the tension snapping like a frayed cable.
