6. Cassie
CASSIE
T he wrought-iron gates of Roman’s estate rose before us like something out of a Gothic nightmare. As our car passed through the checkpoint—armed guards, German Shepherds, and enough firepower to outfit a small army—I realized this wasn’t just a home. This was a fortress.
"Holy shit," I whispered, pressing my face to the tinted window.
"Language, sweetheart." Roman’s voice carried a familiar note of amusement that made my stomach flip. "You’re about to meet my family. They expect a certain level of... refinement."
The mansion stretched across the horizon like a dark castle, with all stone walls and narrow windows that looked designed more for defense than decoration.
Ivy crawled up the sides, and massive oak trees created shadows that seemed to move with the wind.
It was beautiful in a terrifying way—the kind of place where fairy tale princesses got locked in towers.
"This is where you live?" I asked.
"This is where we live now." His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with warm possessiveness. "My ancestors built this place in 1847 when they first came to America. It’s been in the Creed family ever since."
The car stopped in front of massive wooden doors that looked like they belonged to a medieval cathedral. Roman stepped out first, then offered his hand to help me from the car. The moment my heels hit the gravel, I felt eyes on me—watching, evaluating, judging.
Men in expensive suits emerged from various corners of the property. Some I recognized from the office; others were complete strangers. All of them moved with the predatory grace of people who were intimately familiar with violence.
"Gentlemen," Roman said, his arm sliding around my waist with a territorial claim. "I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Cassie James."
The introductions blurred together—Connor, Joey, Tommy, names attached to faces that belonged in mafia movies. Each handshake was firm but respectful, their eyes calculating as they assessed whether I was a threat, an asset, or just another liability.
But the way they looked at Roman really caught my attention. These weren’t just employees or business associates. These men would die for him. And more importantly, they’d kill for him without hesitation.
"Welcome to the family, Ms. James," said Connor, a man with silver hair and kind eyes that didn’t match the gun clearly outlined beneath his jacket. "Roman told us wonderful things about you."
"Has he?" I glanced at Roman, who was watching the interaction with intense focus. "That’s... surprising."
Connor laughed. "He said you make excellent coffee and have a backbone of steel. High praise from our boy here."
"Connor," Roman’s voice carried a warning.
"Right, right. Business later." Connor winked at me. "Welcome home, dear."
Home. The word hit me like a physical blow. This wasn’t my home. This was a prison disguised as luxury, complete with armed guards and men who called Roman "boss" instead of using his name.
Roman’s hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance. "Come on. Let me show you around."
The interior was just as imposing as the exterior—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and oil paintings of stern-faced men who looked like they’d seen too much violence. Everything screamed old money and older secrets.
"The west wing is private," Roman explained as we walked through hallways lined with Irish Celtic symbols carved into dark wood. "That’s where our rooms are. The east wing houses my office and the meeting rooms. You don’t go there without me. Understood?"
"Understood." I tried to keep my voice steady, but the weight of this place was crushing. "Roman, how many people live here?"
"Twelve permanently. More when business requires it." He stopped in front of a portrait of a man who looked like an older, harder version of Roman. "My father, Patrick Creed. He built this empire from nothing."
There was something in his voice—pride mixed with pain. I studied the painting, noting the same blue eyes, the same stubborn jawline. But where Roman carried himself with controlled power, his father looked like he’d never met a problem he couldn’t solve with his fists.
"He would’ve liked you," Roman said quietly.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you’re not afraid of me." His fingers traced along my arm, leaving fire in their wake. "He always said fear was a poor foundation for loyalty."
The tour continued—library, gym, wine cellar that looked like it could survive a nuclear apocalypse. But the dining room was what really drove home what my life had become.
The table could seat twenty, but tonight only eight chairs were occupied. Roman sat at the head, with me to his right like some kind of queen. The other men arranged themselves with military precision, and I quickly realized this wasn’t just dinner—it was a war council.
"The shipment from Belfast arrived this morning," Joey reported between courses of what was probably the most expensive meal I’d ever eaten. "But the dock workers are asking questions about the crates."
"What kind of questions?" Roman’s voice remained casual, but his fingers drummed once against the table—his tell for stress.
"Nothing specific. Just... curious about why private security was handling the unloading instead of their usual crew."
Declan leaned forward, his pale eyes fixed on Roman. "We need to consider rotating our routes. If the workers are getting suspicious?—"
"We’re not changing anything yet," Roman interrupted. "One nervous dock worker doesn’t constitute a security breach."
"And if it’s more than nerves?" Connor asked. "If someone’s been talking to people they shouldn’t be talking to?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. I kept my expression neutral, but inside, my pulse was racing. These men were discussing criminal activity, like other people talked about the weather. Shipments, security breaches, people "talking"—the implications were crystal clear.
"Then we handle it," Roman said simply. "Same way we’ve always handled loose ends."
The casual tone he used to discuss what was clearly murder made my blood run cold. But what scared me more was the way my body still responded to his presence—the way my skin heated when his knee brushed mine under the table, the way my breath caught when he smiled at something Connor said.
I was attracted to a man who probably had people killed on a regular basis.
God help me.
After dinner, Roman excused us both, leading me to a private sitting room lined with books and warmed by a crackling fireplace. The space felt more intimate than anywhere we’d been so far, all warm leather and soft lighting.
"We need to discuss the rules," he said, settling into a chair across from me with a glass of whiskey.
"Rules?" I tucked my legs under me, trying to look more confident than I felt.
"You’re not just my wife now, Cassie. You’re part of this world, and this world has expectations." His eyes never left mine as he spoke. "First rule—loyalty. You never speak about what you see or hear in this house to anyone outside these walls. Ever."
"I understand."
"Second rule—discretion. When we’re in public, you smile, you’re charming, and you never let anyone see you sweat. The wives and girlfriends of my associates will test you and try to find weaknesses. Don’t give them any."
I nodded.
"Third rule—appearances. We’re newlyweds who are madly in love. That means you wear my ring, you let me touch you in public, and you convince everyone that this marriage is real."
"And in private?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Something dark flickered in his eyes. "In private, we figure it out."
He stood and moved to the fireplace, his back to me. The flames cast shadows across his broad shoulders, and I found myself wanting to touch him despite everything I’d learned tonight.
"Roman?" I whispered..
"Yes?"
"Are you going to hurt me?"
He turned around, and for a moment, the mask slipped. I saw something vulnerable flash across his features before he controlled it.
"No, Cassie. I’m going to protect you." He walked toward me, stopping just close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "But you have to trust me. Can you do that?"
His hand reached out, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness. The touch sent electricity straight down my spine, and I had to bite back a whimper.
"I’m trying," I whispered.
"That’s all I ask." His thumb traced along my jawline, and I leaned into the touch without thinking. "This world is dangerous, Cassie. But as long as you follow the rules, as long as you stay close to me, you’ll be safe. I promise."
The sincerity in his voice nearly undid me. This was the Roman I’d glimpsed in quiet moments at the office—the man beneath the monster, the one who brought me coffee when I was stressed and remembered my birthday when I didn’t think anyone noticed.
"Okay," I breathed.
"Good girl." The praise made my cheeks flush, and his eyes darkened as he noticed. "I have some business to attend to. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we start planning the wedding."
He started to pull away, but I caught his bicep. "Roman?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For keeping me safe."
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "You don’t need to thank me for that, sweetheart. It’s what husbands do."
He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before leaving me alone with the fire and my racing thoughts.
Hours later, I lay in the massive bed in what was apparently now my room, staring at the ceiling and trying to process everything.
The Egyptian cotton sheets were softer than anything I’d ever owned, the room was larger than my entire apartment had been, and somewhere in this fortress was a man who’d turned my world upside down in the span of twenty-four hours.
A man who’d made me come harder than I ever had in my life.
A man who’d just promised to protect me while casually discussing murder over dinner.
A man I was apparently going to marry.
Sleep felt impossible, so I wrapped Roman’s robe around myself—it had been hanging in the massive walk-in closet like he’d been expecting me—and padded barefoot toward the kitchen for some water.
The house felt different at night. Shadows moved in corners, and every creak made my pulse spike. I was passing by the east wing when I heard voices—low, urgent, definitely not a casual conversation.
I knew I should keep walking. Roman had been clear about the rules, about staying out of business that didn’t concern me. But something in the tone made me pause, then creep closer to the partially open door.
"...getting too close," Declan was saying, his voice tight with tension. "If they figure out what we’re really moving through those shipments?—"
"They won’t," Roman interrupted. "The security is airtight."
"Is it? Because someone knew exactly when and where to hit that warehouse last week. Someone with inside information."
My blood turned to ice. They’d been attacked? When? And why hadn’t Roman told me?
"What are you saying, Declan?" Connor’s voice carried a warning edge.
"I’m saying we have a problem. A big one. Someone inside our organization is feeding information to our enemies."
"Who?" Roman’s voice was deadly quiet.
"That’s what we need to figure out. Because if we don’t find the mole soon, we’re all dead men."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. I pressed myself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe.
"How many people knew about the warehouse operation?" Roman asked.
"Eight. Maybe nine, if you count?—"
"I count everyone. Names, Declan. Give me names."
As Declan started listing off people I’d met tonight, people who’d shaken my hand and welcomed me to the family, I realized with growing horror that one of them was a traitor. Someone in this house, someone who’d sat at that dinner table and smiled at me, was actively trying to get Roman killed.
And now I was part of this world. Now, I was a target too.
I backed away from the door on silent feet, my heart hammering against my ribs. By the time I made it back to my room, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn the lock.
Roman had promised to protect me, but how could he protect me from threats he couldn’t see coming?
How could anyone protect me from an enemy who was already inside the walls?