Chapter 6 - The Cage at the Top of the World
The penthouse occupied the entire sixty-fifth floor, hovering directly above the offices where Khloe had spent two years typing blind invoices.
The private elevator opened not into a hallway, but directly into an expanse of dark basalt, brushed titanium, and panoramic glass that looked out over the glittering grid of Manhattan.
Roman pushed her inside before stepping through, his hand never entirely leaving the curve of her waist.
Khloe pulled away the instant the elevator doors slid shut behind them, her four-inch heels clicking sharply across the stone.
She crossed her arms over her chest, the cold silk of the dress rustling against her bare arms.
"I need my coat," she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline.
"I need my bag, and I need to go home to Queens."
"You don't have a home in Queens anymore," Roman said, tossing his black dinner jacket onto the low back of an Italian leather sofa.
He began unbuttoning his tuxedo cuffs, his movements slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm.
"You can't keep me here, Mr. Caster."
"You have no legal right to detain me."
"Legal?" Roman turned, his scarred lip curling into a humorless smile.
"You've processed wire transfers through four shell companies in the Caymans every Tuesday for twenty-four months."
"You know exactly what I am, Khloe."
"Do not insult both of us by bringing the law into this room."
Khloe swallowed hard, backing away until the backs of her knees touched the glass balcony partition.
"My mother is waiting for me."
"She has an early appointment at the clinic."
"If I am not there to open the door for the medical transport, the nurses will call the precinct."
Roman paused, his fingers resting on the platinum link of his watch.
He looked at her, his gray eyes narrowing as if fitting a puzzle piece that had been missing all night.
"The clinic in North Bergen," he said softly.
"The one funded through an off-shore remittance account linked to a deceased textile broker."
Khloe froze, the blood draining from her face.
"You checked," she whispered.
"I am the underboss of the largest supply corridor on the East Coast," Roman said, stepping toward her until his shadow swallowed her entirely.
"The moment Don Bernardo looked at you like he wanted to burn you at the stake, my intelligence team pulled every utility bill, hospital chart, and tax return tied to your social security number."
"Khloe Hayes."
"Daughter of David Hayes."
"The last comptroller of Hayes Marine Logistics before the Moretti family sank their container ships and foreclosed on their dry docks in ninety-eight."
He was standing inches from her now.
She could smell the bourbon on his breath, the faint trace of cordite on his skin, and the clean scent of cedarwood soap.
"Your father didn't die of a heart attack in that holding cell, did he?" Roman asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, velvet purr.
Khloe clutched the diamond choker around her neck, her amber eyes blazing with suppressed grief.
"Bernardo Moretti had two guards suffocate him with an plastic evidence bag," she said through clenched teeth.
"Because my father kept a second ledger."
"A ledger containing the offshore shell corporations the Moretti family used to launder money through municipal school bonds."
"A ledger that disappeared the night he died."
Roman's eyes dilated slightly in the dim light of the penthouse.
"And you have it."
"No," Khloe lied instantly, her chin jutting out in defiance.
"I was eight years old, Mr. Caster."
"I have nothing except twenty-eight thousand dollars in delinquent student debt and a dying mother whose blood has to be filtered by a machine three times a week."
"I disguised myself so I wouldn't be recognized by the people who murdered him."
"And tonight, you paraded me in front of the man who gave the order."
Roman reached out, his fingers catching a strand of her dark hair and rolling the silkiness between his thumb and forefinger.
"I didn't know," he admitted, the words tasting foreign on his tongue.
"You didn't care," she shot back.
"You wanted to show your rivals that you were too powerful to follow their rules."
"You wanted to humiliate them with a plain girl."
"You didn't care who got hurt in the process."
Roman's grip on her hair tightened slightly, not enough to cause pain, but enough to hold her gaze locked to his.
"I wanted to mock them, yes," he murmured, his face lowering until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"I expected an awkward girl who would make Marco Moretti laugh."
"I didn't expect you."
"I didn't expect a woman who could bring the most dangerous room in the country to a dead stop."
"I am not your ornament, Roman," Khloe said, using his first name for the first time in two years.
"You're not an ornament," Roman agreed, his thumb trailing down the curve of her jaw to rest against the warm hollow of her throat.
"You're a live grenade."
"And if I let you walk out of this lobby tonight, Marco Moretti's hit squad will pull you into an unmarked van before you reach the Midtown Tunnel."
"They don't want you just for your father's ledger, Khloe."
"Marco wants you because you made him look like a castrated dog in front of the entire Commission."
"And I want you because no other man in this city is going to look at you the way they looked at you tonight."
Khloe stepped sideways, breaking his contact, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I need to see my mother."
"Your mother is being moved," Roman said, turning away to pour two fingers of single-malt scotch into a crystal tumbler.
"What?" Khloe's voice cracked, sheer panic slamming into her chest.
"What did you do to her?"
"Relax," Roman commanded, his tone hardening.
"A private medical transport arrived at the North Bergen facility twenty minutes ago."
"She is currently in an ambulance equipped with full life-support systems, en route to a private wing at Columbia Presbyterian."
"Her bills are paid under a discretionary corporate account."
"She will have twenty-four-hour private nursing and three armed men outside her room disguised as hospital orderly staff."
Khloe pressed both hands to her face, a wave of dizziness threatening to pull her to the floor.
"You took her hostage."
"I took her out of the line of fire," Roman countered, taking a slow sip of the amber liquid.
"Because the moment Bernardo Moretti realized who you were, his first order was to dispatch cleaners to her old clinic."
"If my men hadn't arrived at midnight, your mother would already be at the bottom of the East River."
Khloe lowered her hands, staring at him through the dim room.
The reality of her situation collapsed around her like a house of iron.
The quiet, invisible life she had spent a decade building was gone.
The oversized sweaters, the thick glasses, the quiet bus rides at dawn—all of it had been incinerated in the span of three hours.
She was no longer an invisible clerk.
She was the ward, the captive, and the chosen prize of the most ruthless predator in the state.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered, her voice stripped of anger, leaving only the raw, aching truth of her survival.
Roman set his glass down on the titanium counter with a soft, final ring.
He walked toward her, his movements silent, predatory, and absolute.
May you like
"I want the ledger your father hid," he said softly, stopping an inch from her lips.
"And until we find it, you stay in this penthouse, you sleep in my bed, and you belong to me."
