17. Roman
ROMAN
T he oak table in my private meeting room had seen a lot of blood over the years—both literal and metaphorical. Tonight, it would see more.
I stood at the head, watching my inner circle file in with faces that revealed nothing.
Connor, as steady as ever. Tommy, pale and jittery from too much caffeine and paranoia.
Joey, still sporting a faint bruise on his jaw from where I’d laid him out for disrespecting Cassie.
Sean, my bodyguard, limped with the controlled tension of a man who lived on constant alert.
Fion O’Brien, scarred and silent, commanding respect through pure presence.
And Declan. My consigliere, my trusted advisor, the man who’d stood by my side through every crisis—until recently.
"Gentlemen," I said, my voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. "We have a problem."
The room went silent. These men had followed me through wars, had bled for the Creed name, and had proven their loyalty repeatedly. But someone in this room—or someone with access to our most sensitive information—was selling us out to our enemies.
"The warehouse trap wasn’t random," I continued, spreading surveillance photos across the table. "Neither were the intercepted shipments or the federal raids. Someone with inside knowledge has been feeding intel to hostile factions."
Tommy leaned forward, his laptop already open. "I’ve been running digital forensics on all our communications. Encrypted channels, burner phones, everything. The breach isn’t electronic."
"Meaning what?" Connor asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.
"Meaning it’s human intelligence," Declan said smoothly. "Someone close enough to our operations to know the timing, locations, and personnel. Someone we trust."
The accusation hung in the air like gun smoke. I watched each face, cataloging micro-expressions, looking for tells. But these were professional killers—if one of them was the mole, they would not give themselves away with nervous twitches.
"Who had access to all compromised operations?" I asked, feeling like we were going through the same motions over and over again.
Fion pulled out a manila folder, his movements deliberate. "As far as I can tell, eight people knew about the Baltimore warehouse, the shipping routes, and the Torrino meeting that got ambushed."
"Names," I demanded.
"Everyone in this room," Connor whispered. "Plus Cassie."
The mention of her name made my jaw clench. I’d already had this conversation with Declan, but hearing it in front of the others made the implication feel heavier. More dangerous.
"The girl’s clean," Joey said, surprising everyone. This from the man who’d called her a slut less than a week ago. "She doesn’t have the background or connections for this kind of operation."
"Doesn’t she?" Sean spoke up, his voice carrying that gravelly tone that came from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. "Five months as your assistant. Access to your office, your files, and your conversations. Perfect position to gather intelligence."
My blood pressure spiked. "Cassie isn’t the problem here."
"How can you be certain?" Declan asked, his pale eyes studying me with uncomfortable intensity. "With respect, Roman, you’ve been... distracted lately. Making decisions based on emotion rather than logic."
Several heads nodded around the table. The betrayal hit deeper than any physical blow.
"Explain that comment," I said, my voice deadly.
"The marriage," Tommy said, his fingers nervous on his keyboard. "Bringing an outsider into the family. Changing security protocols to accommodate her presence. It’s creating vulnerabilities."
"She’s making you soft, boss," Sean added, and I saw red.
"Say that again." I leaned forward, every muscle coiled tight. "I fucking dare you."
Sean held my gaze, stubborn as a bulldog. "You’re making exceptions, taking risks you never would’ve taken before. The men are starting to notice."
"What men?"
"All of them." He gestured around the table. "We’re concerned about your judgment. About whether you can still make the hard choices this business requires."
The room erupted in murmurs of agreement. I watched faces I’d trusted with my life nodding along with Sean’s assessment, and something cold settled in my chest. These weren’t just concerns about security—this was a challenge to my authority.
"I see," I said, straightening slowly. "And what do you suggest?"
Declan cleared his throat. "Temporarily step back from operational control. Let Connor or myself handle day-to-day decisions until we resolve the security breach. It would show the family that you’re taking the threat seriously."
"And it would show weakness," I countered. "The moment I step aside, every rival family in the city will see it as an opportunity to move against us."
"Better than getting killed because you’re too distracted to see threats coming," Sean said.
The silence that followed was deafening. I looked around the table at men who’d sworn loyalty to me, to the Creed name, to everything my father had built. And now they were questioning my fitness to lead.
"Anyone else share Sean’s assessment?" I asked.
More nods. Too many nods.
"I see." I straightened my cufflinks, a gesture my father had taught me—always maintain dignity, especially when surrounded by wolves. "Here’s what’s going to happen instead."
I walked to the window, gathering my thoughts while rage burned in my chest. These men thought I’d gone soft because I’d found something worth protecting beyond the business. They thought love was a weakness.
They were about to learn differently.
"We implement a compartmentalization protocol," I said, turning back to face them. "No one person has access to complete operational information. Every major decision gets divided into segments, distributed among different teams."
"That’s going to slow everything down," Fion observed.
"It’s going to keep us alive." I met each pair of eyes?. "We’re also implementing random polygraph testing. Everyone in this room, including myself."
The objections started.
"That’s excessive?—"
"We’ve never needed?—"
"—questioning our loyalty after everything we’ve?—"
"ENOUGH." The word cracked like a whip, silencing the room instantly. "This is not a democracy. This is not a negotiation. This is me telling you how things are going to be."
I leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "Someone in this organization is trying to get me killed. Someone sitting in rooms like this, sharing meals at my table, collecting paychecks signed with my name. Until I know who, everyone is a suspect."
"Including your fiancée?" Declan asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"Including everyone." The lie came easily, but it was necessary. I couldn’t show favoritism, couldn’t reveal that Cassie had already become more important to me than the business itself. "No exceptions."
But Sean wasn’t backing down. "What about when the families start asking questions? When they see you implementing police-state tactics on your own men?"
"Let them ask." I straightened, every inch the dangerous man my father had raised me to be. "Anyone who has a problem with my methods can take it up with me directly."
The threat was implicit but clear. Challenge my authority, and face the consequences.
"Meeting adjourned," I said. "Implement the new protocols immediately. And gentlemen? If I find out any of you have been discussing family business outside this room, the next conversation we have will be much shorter."
They filed out in tense silence, leaving me alone with my doubts and growing certainty that the betrayal ran deeper than I’d imagined. Because the mole wasn’t just selling information—they were systematically undermining my authority, turning my own men against me.
And they were succeeding.
I loosened my tie and headed for the gym.
Physical exertion was the only thing that helped when the weight of leadership became too heavy to carry.
The basement workout room was one of the few places in the house where I could let the mask slip, where I didn’t have to be the untouchable Roman Creed.
The heavy bag absorbed the impact of my fists with satisfying thuds.
Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I let each punch carry the frustration of the last few weeks—the security breaches, the questioning of my authority, the growing certainty that someone I trusted was working to destroy everything I’d built.
Sweat burned my eyes as I worked through combinations my father had taught me. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. The rhythm was meditative, almost hypnotic, allowing my mind to process the evening’s revelations.
Sean’s challenge hadn’t been spontaneous. Neither had the others support of Declan’s suggestion. This had been coordinated, planned. Someone was orchestrating a soft coup, convincing my inner circle I was unfit to lead.
The question was who.
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the door open.
"You’re bleeding."
Cassie’s voice cut through my concentration. I turned to find her standing in the doorway, still wearing the silk nightgown I’d bought her, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She looked small in the massive space, vulnerable, but her eyes held that steel I recognized.
"It’s nothing," I said, glancing at my knuckles. Blood had seeped through the hand wraps, but it was minor damage.
"Doesn’t look like nothing." She approached slowly, like I was a dangerous animal that might bolt. "May I?"
I should’ve sent her away. Should’ve maintained the distance that kept her safe from the violence that defined my world. Instead, I held out my hands.
Her touch was gentle as she unwrapped the bloody cloth, examining the damage with professional efficiency. "You need ice for the swelling."
"I’ll live."
"Will you?" She looked up at me, and I saw something in her eyes that made my chest tighten. Concern. Fear. Something deeper that I didn’t want to name. "Roman, what happened in that meeting?"
For a moment, I considered lying. Giving her some sanitized version that would preserve the illusion of control. But sitting there in the dim light of the gym, with her hands gentle on my damaged knuckles, the truth spilled out.
"They think I’ve gone soft," I said quietly. "My own men. They think you’re making me weak, compromising my judgment."
Her face went pale. "Maybe they’re right."
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "They’re scared. Men like that…they don’t understand anything that isn’t bought with blood or intimidation. They see me protecting you, see me making room in my life for something other than violence, and they think it’s weakness."
"Isn’t it?" Her voice was small, uncertain. "This world you live in—maybe there isn’t room for..."
"For what?"
"For this. For us. For whatever this is becoming."
I caught her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Listen to me, Cassie. What’s happening between us—it’s not making me weak. It’s making me stronger. More focused. More determined to build something worth protecting."
"But if your own people don’t trust you?—"
"Then I’ll build new trust. With people who understand that strength isn’t just about the willingness to kill. It’s about having something worth dying for."
The confession hung between us, raw and vulnerable. I’d never said anything like that to anyone, had never allowed myself to acknowledge that the business wasn’t enough anymore. I wanted something more than just survival and power.
"You’re scared," she breathed, and it wasn’t a question.
"Terrified," I admitted. "Not of dying—I’ve made peace with that possibility years ago. I’m scared of failing. Of letting down everyone who depends on me. Of not being the man my father raised me to be."
Her hands covered mine, where they rested against her cheeks. "Your father built an empire through violence and fear. But maybe that’s not the only way."
"Maybe." I leaned forward until our foreheads touched. "But right now, I’m surrounded by enemies I can’t see, questioned by allies who should trust me, and responsible for keeping you safe in a world that wants to destroy anything I care about."
"You don’t have to carry it all alone," she whispered.
"Don’t I?"
Her lips found mine, soft and questioning. The kiss was gentle at first, a comfort rather than passion. But as always with Cassie, the electricity between us flared to life, transforming tenderness into something hungrier.
I pulled her closer, needing the reassurance of her warmth, her strength, her unwavering presence in a world that seemed determined to tear everything away from me. She was my anchor in a storm I couldn’t control, the one thing that made sense when everything else felt like chaos.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her head against my chest.
"We’ll figure it out," she whispered. "Together."
For the first time in weeks, I almost believed her.