29. Roman
ROMAN
T he hidden compound looked like a medieval fortress that had been dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.
Stone walls that could withstand a siege surrounded a complex of buildings that hummed with enough electronic surveillance to make the NSA jealous.
This was where the Irish families gathered when blood had been spilled and justice needed to be dispensed.
Where men like Declan faced judgment for their betrayals.
I helped Cassie from the car, noting how she took in every detail with those sharp brown eyes. The armed guards at the checkpoint, the bulletproof glass, the way everyone moved with the careful efficiency of people who knew violence was always one wrong word away.
"How many people know about this place?" she asked as we walked toward the main building.
"Twelve families. Maybe fifteen." I kept my hand on the small of her back, a claiming touch that announced to everyone watching that she belonged to me. "And now you."
The weight of that trust wasn’t lost on either of us. By bringing her here, I was declaring her part of the family in a way that couldn’t be undone. The old guard would notice. They’d remember. And some of them wouldn’t like it.
Good. Let them try to object.
The main conference room was already packed when we arrived.
Tommy sat hunched over his laptop in one corner, looking pale and jittery from too much caffeine and too little sleep.
Connor stood near the windows, his silver hair catching the light as he surveyed the grounds with professional paranoia.
But it was the other faces that made my jaw clench.
Representatives from the O’Sullivan family, the Flanagans, the Murphys—old Irish bloodlines that had ruled this city’s shadows for generations.
Men who remembered my father, who’d sworn oaths to the Creed name but weren’t sure about the son who’d inherited it.
"Roman." Elder Seamus Flanagan stood as I entered, his weathered face giving nothing away. "We came as soon as we heard. Thank Christ you’re alive."
"No thanks to Declan," muttered Jamie Murphy, whose scarred hands told stories about his younger days in Belfast. "Treacherous bastard nearly burned down half the estate."
The conversation stopped when Cassie entered behind me. I felt the shift in the room, the way eyes cataloged her presence with calculations I didn’t like. She was an outsider in a room full of people who’d killed for family honor. But she held her head high, meeting their stares with steady grace.
"Gentlemen," I said, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "Let’s get to business."
I moved to the head of the table, Cassie taking the seat to my right like she belonged there. Which she did, even if some of these old bastards would need reminding.
"Declan Smith has been stripped of rank and position within the Creed organization," I began, my voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "He burned my home, killed my men, and broke every oath he swore to this family."
"The question is what we do about it," Connor said, his kind eyes harder than I’d ever seen them. "He survived the fire. The firefighters pulled him out alive."
"Then we finish what the flames started," Jamie Murphy growled. "Betrayal demands blood payment."
Several heads nodded around the table. In their world, treachery was a terminal disease that required permanent treatment.
"With respect," Judge Thomas O’Sullivan interjected, "Declan has connections throughout the organization. Family in Belfast, allies in Boston. His execution could trigger retaliation."
"Let them try," young Tommy said without looking up from his laptop. "I’ve already tracked seventeen separate communications networks he used to coordinate with our enemies. The man was planning this for months."
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of their expectations. These men wanted blood. Wanted the kind of justice that made headlines and sent messages to anyone else considering betrayal.
But I’d learned something in that burning mansion. Something about the cost of violence, about the difference between strength and cruelty.
"Declan lives," I said quietly.
The room erupted in protests.
"Roman, you can’t?—"
"—betrayal demands?—"
"—show of weakness?—"
"ENOUGH." The word cracked like a whip, silencing them instantly. "He lives. But not free."
I stood, commanding their attention through presence alone. "Declan Smith is hereby exiled to a guarded territory in Eastern Europe. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. No contact with family or associates. No possibility of escape."
"That’s not justice," Jamie Murphy said, his voice tight with disapproval.
"Dead men don’t suffer," I replied simply. "Every day for the rest of his life, Declan will wake up knowing he lost everything. His rank, his family, his future. He’ll die alone in a foreign country, forgotten by everyone who once respected him. That’s a fate worse than any bullet."
The logic was sound, but I could see doubt flickering on several faces. They wanted blood, wanted the primitive satisfaction of revenge served hot. My father would’ve given them what they wanted.
I wasn’t my father.
"There’s another matter," Elder Flanagan said, his pale eyes finding Cassie. "The girl."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. I felt Cassie tense beside me, but her expression remained calm. Professional. Like she was still my assistant, taking notes in a board meeting instead of the woman carrying my child.
"What about her?" I asked, ice creeping into my voice.
"She’s an outsider, Roman. No family connections, no understanding of our traditions. Some of the families are... concerned about her influence."
The careful phrasing didn’t hide the insult. They thought she was a gold-digging whore who’d seduced me away from my responsibilities.
I stood slowly, letting them see the danger radiating off me in waves.
"She’s not just some girl," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "She’s my partner. My fiancée. She’s why I’m standing here instead of buried under the rubble of my father’s house. She’s proven her loyalty in blood and fire."
"Roman—" Flanagan started.
"I’m not finished." The words cut through his objection like a blade. "Cassie James is part of this family now. She has my protection, my name, and my complete trust. Anyone who questions her place questions me directly."
The silence that followed was absolute. I could hear my heartbeat, could feel Cassie’s steady presence beside me like an anchor.
"Are we clear?" I asked.
Nods around the table. Reluctant, maybe, but submission nonetheless.
"Good. Then this meeting is adjourned."
The drive to my temporary penthouse was quiet, both of us processing what had just happened.
I’d drawn lines in blood tonight, made declarations that couldn’t be taken back.
The old guard would accept Cassie because I’d given them no choice, but I could feel their disapproval like a weight on my shoulders.
The penthouse was a fortress of glass and steel thirty floors above the city, with views that stretched to the horizon and security that rivaled government installations. It wasn’t home—that had burned to ash two days ago—but it was safe. Protected. Ours.
"They hate me," Cassie said quietly as we stepped off the private elevator.
"They fear you." I helped her out of her coat, noting the way she moved—carefully, like she was protecting something precious. "There’s a difference."
She walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city lights spread below us like fallen stars. "They think I’m a liability."
"They think you’re the reason I’m changing. And they’re right." I moved to the bar cart, pouring myself three fingers of Jameson. "But change isn’t weakness. It’s evolution."
"Your father?—"
"Built an empire through fear and violence. But maybe there’s another way."
I joined her at the window, studying her reflection in the glass. She looked thoughtful, distant, like she was carrying the weight of decisions I couldn’t see.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked.
"The future." Her hand moved unconsciously to her stomach, a gesture so brief I almost missed it. "What we’re building. Whether it’s worth the cost."
Something in her tone made my chest tighten. "Having second thoughts?"
"No." She turned to face me, and the intensity in her brown eyes took my breath away. "Just... understanding what it means to be part of this world. To choose it every day."
I set down my glass and reached for her hand, not for show or possession, but for the simple comfort of her touch.
We’d survived the fire, survived Declan’s betrayal, survived the challenges from the old guard.
But I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way carrying secrets was wearing her down.
"We’ll figure it out," I breathed. "One day at a time."
She stepped closer, her free hand coming up to rest against my chest. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Roman. The burden of leadership, the weight of decisions—you don’t carry it by yourself."
The simple truth of her words hit me like a physical blow. For so long, I’d been the sole authority, the final decision-maker, the man who bore responsibility for every life under my protection. But looking into her eyes, I realized she was right.
I wasn’t alone anymore.
"I love you," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Her breath caught, and for a moment, time seemed suspended between us. Then she rose on her toes, her lips finding mine in a kiss that tasted like hope and promises and forever.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against mine.
"Take me to bed," she whispered.
The request sent electricity straight through my veins, but this wasn’t about desire. This was about connection, about two people who’d walked through hell together, finding solace in each other’s arms.
I caught her hand and led her toward the bedroom, toward whatever future we were building one choice at a time.