25. Roman
ROMAN
C onnor’s voice cut through the morning quiet like a blade through silk. "Come to my bunker. Alone."
No pleasantries. No explanation. Just the kind of urgency that made my blood run cold.
I stood at the window of my office, watching Cassie in the garden below.
She was reading in the morning sunlight, one hand resting unconsciously on her stomach—a gesture that had become more frequent since we’d returned from the hospital.
The sight of her made my chest tight with emotions I couldn’t afford to examine too closely.
"When?" I asked Connor.
"Now. And Roman? Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Not even her."
The line went dead before I could respond, leaving me staring at my phone with growing unease. Connor had been my father’s most trusted man, had saved my life more times than I could count. If he was calling in emergency protocols, something was very, very wrong.
I found Cassie exactly where I’d seen her from the window, curled in the wrought-iron chair beneath the oak tree that had stood on Creed land for over a century. She looked up as I approached, and I watched her expression shift from contentment to concern in the space of a heartbeat.
"You have that look," she said, closing her book around her finger to mark the page.
"What look?"
"The one that means you’re about to walk into danger and I’m supposed to pretend I’m not terrified." Her brown eyes searched my face. "Where are you going?"
I could lie to her. Should lie to her. Keep her in the safe bubble of ignorance that had protected her this long. But something in her expression—the steel beneath the concern, the way she straightened her spine like she was preparing for battle—stopped me.
"Connor needs to see me. Alone." I crouched beside her chair, bringing us to eye level. "I don’t know what it’s about, but I need you to stay here. Stay close to the house."
Her hand moved to cover mine, where it rested on the chair’s armrest. "Promise me you’ll be careful."
"Always am."
"No, you’re not." Her grip tightened. "You’re reckless and stubborn, and you think your life matters less than everyone else’s. But it matters to me, Roman. You matter to me."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Sitting there in the morning sunlight, looking at the woman carrying my child, I realized how much I wanted out of this world. How badly I wanted to build something clean with her, something that didn’t require armed guards and bulletproof glass.
"I know," I said quietly. "And that’s exactly why I need to handle whatever this is."
I leaned forward and kissed her—soft, lingering, tasting like coffee and promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. When I pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"Come back to me," she whispered.
"Wild horses couldn’t keep me away."
Connor’s safehouse bunker was a nondescript warehouse in the industrial district, the kind of place that looked abandoned from the outside but hummed with barely concealed technology within.
I’d been here twice before—once when my father was still alive, once during the bloodiest year of the Torrino war. Neither visit had ended well.
The heavy steel door opened before I could knock. Connor stood in the doorway, his silver hair disheveled, his kind eyes carrying the weight of bad news.
"You came," he said, stepping aside to let me enter.
"You called."
The interior was exactly as I remembered—concrete walls lined with monitors, servers humming in temperature-controlled cases, enough electronic surveillance equipment to make the FBI jealous.
When it came to privacy, Connor had been paranoid long before paranoia became a survival skill in our world.
"Sit down," he said, gesturing to one of the metal chairs facing a wall of screens where Tommy sat hunched over multiple keyboards, his pale face illuminated by the glow of data streams.
"I’ll stand. What’s this about?"
Tommy looked up briefly, acknowledging me with a nervous nod before diving back into his work. Connor stood behind him, one hand on the kid’s shoulder like a proud mentor watching the kid he brought into our network half a decade ago work magic.
"Show him what we found," Connor said.
Tommy’s fingers flew across the keyboard with a speed that made my eyes water. The main screen flickered to life, displaying what looked like phone records.
"Remember that burner phone we found in Sean’s quarters?" Connor asked, his eyes never leaving the screens. "The one that supposedly proved he was the mole?"
My jaw clenched. "Yeah."
"When you gave it to Tommy for deeper analysis, the kid found something we all missed." Connor’s voice was steady, professional, but I could hear the anger underneath. "Tell him, Tommy."
Tommy cleared his throat, still typing. "That phone was never Sean’s, boss. I traced the serial numbers, purchase records, and followed every digital breadcrumb." His voice gained confidence as he spoke about his domain. "The metadata doesn’t lie—someone wanted us to find it."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Explain."
"It was purchased three months ago with a credit card linked to a shell corporation. That corporation traces back to a secure account." Connor turned to face me, his expression grim. "Declan’s account."
The words hit me like ice water. "That’s impossible."
"I wish it was." Tommy pulled up another screen with lightning-fast keystrokes, displaying financial records.
"But it gets worse. I found the real call logs you asked me to analyze—not just from the planted phone, but from Declan’s personal devices.
" His paranoid genius was in full display now.
"I cross-referenced them with our operational timeline, and the pattern was unmistakable. "
Connor nodded grimly. "The kid’s a fucking wizard with this stuff. Show him the rest, Tommy."
I watched the data populate across multiple monitors, each piece of evidence building an undeniable picture.
Phone calls to Torrino associates hours before our shipments were intercepted.
Text messages to encrypted numbers minutes after our strategy meetings.
Financial transfers that coincided perfectly with our security breaches.
"He knew about the Baltimore warehouse before we even finalized the plans," Tommy continued, pulling up surveillance footage with practiced efficiency. "Look at this."
The grainy black-and-white video showed the warehouse district two days before the federal raid. A figure moved between the buildings with practiced stealth, and when Tommy enhanced the image with a few keystrokes, Declan’s face became unmistakable.
"He was planting listening devices," Connor said quietly, watching over Tommy’s shoulder. "Feeding real-time intelligence to our enemies. Tommy’s analysis shows this goes back months. Maybe years."
My mind raced through conversations, decisions, moments when Declan had been perfectly positioned to gather intelligence or influence my choices. The subtle suggestions to step back from operations. The way he’d pushed for Sean’s execution. The careful way he’d sown doubt about Cassie.
"Son of a bitch," I breathed.
"There’s more." Tommy pulled up another screen, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.
"Back-channel communications with Marina, Anton’s sister.
Payments from the Torrino family." He turned in his chair to look at me directly. "Boss, Declan hasn’t just been selling us out—he’s been orchestrating our destruction from the inside. "
Connor’s hand tightened on Tommy’s shoulder. "The kid’s been working non-stop for three days to piece this together. I couldn’t have done this without him."
I stared at the evidence, feeling something cold and lethal settle in my chest. Declan. The man I’d trusted above all others. My consigliere, my advisor, the person who’d stood by my side through every crisis.
He’d been planning my downfall from the beginning.
"How long have you known?" I asked.
"Tommy brought me his initial findings three days ago," Connor said, his voice carrying the weight of regret. "I started suspecting after Sean’s execution—something about the evidence felt too clean, too convenient. But I needed to be certain before I came to you. Accusing your right-hand man of treason isn’t something you do lightly. "
Tommy nodded, still typing. "Connor taught me to triple-check everything when it comes to accusations like this. We’ve been working around the clock to verify every piece of data."
Memories crashed over me like waves. Declan’s warnings about trusting outsiders. His suggestions that I was becoming weak, distracted. The way he’d positioned himself as the voice of reason while systematically undermining my authority.
Every piece of advice, every show of loyalty, every moment of apparent concern—it had all been manipulation.
"The ambush at the warehouse," I said, the pieces clicking into place. "He knew we were walking into a trap."
"He planned it. Marina and the Torrinos were supposed to kill you, then Declan would step in as the logical replacement. Clean up the mess, restore order, negotiate new territory agreements."
The betrayal cut deeper than any physical wound. This wasn’t just about money or power—this was personal. Declan had eaten at my table, had stood as witness at family funerals, and had sworn oaths of loyalty that meant nothing.
"Where is he now?" I asked.
"At the estate, last I checked. Roman—" Connor caught my arm as I turned toward the door. "Be smart about this. Declan is dangerous precisely because he knows how you think, how you operate. He’s been studying you for years."
"This stays between us," I said. "No one else hears about this until I decide how to handle it."
Connor nodded. "What are you going to do?"
I thought about Cassie, about the life growing inside her, about the future I wanted to build that didn’t include looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
"I’m going to end this," I said simply.
My mind raced through possibilities, scenarios, ways to handle a traitor who knew all my secrets and commanded the loyalty of half my men. Declan was smart, careful, and patient. He wouldn’t be easy to take down.
But everyone had weaknesses. Everyone made mistakes.
I was pacing the bunker’s hallway for the third time when I realized what mine had been.
I’d trusted him.
I pulled out my phone, needing to hear Cassie’s voice, needing the reassurance that she was safe while I figured out how to handle the snake in our midst.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
"Roman." Cassie’s voice was tight with tension. "Something’s wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"Declan’s here. He said you’d called for a meeting, but?—"
The line went dead.
Ice formed in my veins as I called back immediately. The phone rang endlessly before going to voicemail.
I was already halfway toward the exit when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. Cassie’s number.
"Cassie?"
Silence. Then the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
"Put the phone down, Cassie." Declan’s voice was calm, conversational, like he was discussing the weather instead of committing treason.
The world stopped.
Everything I’d built, everything I’d fought for, everything I loved—it was all in Declan’s hands now. And he knew exactly how much power that gave him.
"Hello, Roman," Declan said, his tone carrying just a hint of satisfaction. "I think it’s time we had a conversation."