Chapter 4 - The Ghost at the Breakfast Table
The morning sun cast a pale, unforgiving light across the marble breakfast terrace of the Costa estate.
Roman sat at the head of the long wrought-iron table, nursing a cup of black coffee that had long since grown cold.
Across from him, Dr. Vance packed his medical instruments back into his leather bag with meticulous care.
“She’s stabilized for now, Boss,” Vance said quietly, not daring to look Roman directly in the eye.
“The bullet missed her kidney by less than an inch, but she lost a dangerous amount of blood.”
“She needs absolute bed rest for at least two weeks, or those stitches will tear right open.”
Roman nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the empty horizon where the estate gates met the private access road.
“Is she awake?” Roman asked.
“She just came around a few minutes ago,” Vance replied, closing his bag with a sharp snap.
“She’s stubborn as hell, Roman.”
“She tried to sit up and demand her laptop before I even finished bandaging her properly.”
“Leave us,” Roman commanded softly.
Dr. Vance packed his equipment and slipped quietly out of the terrace doors, leaving the mafia boss alone with his thoughts.
Roman stood up from the table and walked down the wide corridor toward the master bedroom.
He pushed the heavy door open to find Harper propped up against a mountain of goose-down pillows.
Her face was still startlingly pale, but her dark eyes were sharp and alert.
“You look terrible,” Roman said without preamble, walking over to sit on the edge of the mattress.
“And you look like you haven’t slept in a week,” Harper retorted, her voice raspy from dehydration.
“Where is the flash drive?” Roman asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Harper tilted her head toward the bedside table, where a small black USB drive sat resting beside a glass of water.
Roman picked it up, turning the small piece of plastic over in his calloused fingers.
“Vance said you could have died on that dance floor last night,” Roman murmured, his voice losing its usual iron edge.
“I wouldn’t have died until the dance ended,” she replied with a faint, tired smirk.
“Harper, why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demanded, his frustration finally breaking through his stoic facade.
“If you had known before the wedding, you would have marched straight into Rossi’s compound and started a war,” she explained earnestly.
“The commission would have stripped your title before you even had a chance to present the evidence.”
“I had to secure the marriage first so the commission would recognize me as your legal next-of-kin.”
“Under syndicate law, a wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband, but she can legally present his financial audits.”
Roman stared at her in absolute astonishment.
For three years, he had viewed her simply as the most talented number cruncher in his financial empire.
He never realized that she possessed a tactical mind sharp enough to outmaneuver the oldest crime syndicates in the city.
“You played a very dangerous game, Mrs. Costa,” Roman said softly, testing the new surname on his tongue for the very first time.
“And I won,” Harper whispered back, closing her eyes as a fresh wave of exhaustion washed over her.
Before Roman could answer, the heavy double doors of the bedroom burst open without warning.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his face grim and pale, holding a smoking, perforated envelope in his gloved hand.
“Boss,” Marcus said, breathless and urgently tense.
May you like
“We have a severe problem at the southern perimeter.”
“Rossi didn't wait for our move; he just sent a message straight through our front gates.”
