9. Bargain for the Innocent
Bargain for the Innocent
Vera
Idon’t sleep after the club.
The music still pulses in my bones. The way men watched. The way Father Angelo smiled like he’d already decided where I belonged in the graveyard of politics.
By morning, I’m done being displayed.
When Roman enters the sitting room, he finds me at the table with a legal pad and the tablet he provided.
“I need expanded delivery routes,” I say before he can speak.
He pauses.
No greeting.
No preamble.
“Good morning to you too.”
“This isn’t social.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“Continue.”
I slide the paper across the table.
“Insulin shipments twice weekly. Pediatric antibiotics in bulk. Sutures, sterile gloves, saline, portable oxygen. And the corridor needs to extend two blocks east—Seventh isn’t enough.”
He doesn’t look at the paper immediately.
He looks at me.
“You’re escalating demands.”
“I’m responding to escalation.”
His eyes flicker.
“You saw what happened last night,” I continue. “They’re probing your defenses. The neighborhood will feel that pressure next.”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Because you control everything?” I ask, frustration bleeding through.
He finally glances at the list.
“You’re not a decorative hostage,” he says flatly.
“Then stop treating me like one.”
Silence stretches.
The city glints behind him in hard morning light.
“I gave you a corridor,” he says.
“And I’m asking for more.”
“You’re asking for sustained deployment.”
“I’m asking for protection for people who didn’t choose your war.”
His jaw tightens.
“You think I chose it?”
“I think you live in it.”
That lands.
He studies the paper more carefully now.
“Supplies will move,” he says at last. “Extended route approved.”
Relief hits too quickly, and I hate that I’m grateful.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
He folds the paper neatly and sets it aside.
“You adapt quickly.”
“I don’t have the luxury not to.”
His gaze drifts briefly to my face, then lower—down the line of my throat, my collarbone, the curve of the dress I wore last night still hanging nearby.
Heat blooms low in my stomach before I can stop it.
I despise that reaction.
Despise that my body notices him even when my mind rejects him.
“You learned how to stand in that room,” he says quietly.
“I learned how not to flinch.”
“Most do.”
“I’m not most.”
“No,” he agrees.
The word settles between us like something heavier than agreement.
I push forward before my composure fractures.
“The clinic needs public assurance,” I say. “Not whispers. Not backroom deals.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“You’re asking for visibility.”
“I’m asking for safety.”
“Those are not the same.”
“They can be.”
He considers that.
Then he moves closer, resting one hand lightly on the back of the chair across from me.
“They marked you,” he says. “CLEANSE.”
“I remember.”
“They did that because you look unclaimed.”
The word scrapes against my nerves.
“I’m not a territory,” I snap.
“In this world, you are.”
“I refuse that.”
“You can refuse gravity too,” he replies evenly. “It won’t stop it.”
Anger sparks hot in my chest.
“I won’t stand beside you like property.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“I didn’t say property.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied protection.”
“Ownership disguised as protection is still ownership.”
Silence.
The air feels charged, tight.
His gaze drops to my mouth briefly before returning to my eyes.
“You react strongly to implication,” he observes.
“I react strongly to cages.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “you’re still here.”
I should step back.
I don’t.
My pulse hammers instead.
His presence is overwhelming up close—heat, control, certainty that bends the space around him.
“Public unity,” he says. “Your face beside mine.”
“To do what?”
“To signal alignment.”
“I’m not aligned with you.”
“You are if you want them to stop hunting you.”
The words hit.
Hunting.
That’s what this feels like.
Predators circling.
“You want to use me again,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
The honesty knocks the breath from me.
“At least you don’t pretend.”
“I don’t waste time pretending.”
His hand lifts—not touching me—but hovering near my waist like he’s remembering last night’s declaration.
“If you stand beside me publicly,” he continues, “Rizzi loses narrative. Angelo loses leverage. The city recalibrates.”
“And what do I lose?” I ask.
His gaze sharpens.
“What do you think you lose?”
“My name,” I say. “My autonomy. The illusion that I’m not being traded.”
“You’re not being traded.”
“I was dragged into this.”
“And now you’re positioned at the center of it.”
The truth of that makes my stomach twist.
“I won’t let you parade me,” I say.
He steps even closer.
Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body without contact.
“You hate the idea,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
“But you understand the logic.”
I do.
That’s the worst part.
If the city sees us as aligned, they hesitate.
They recalculate.
They don’t test as aggressively.
“You’re asking me to stand beside you like I chose this,” I whisper.
“I’m asking you to survive it.”
His certainty does something dangerous to my pulse.
My body betrays me again—awareness flickering low and electric.
I hate that I notice the steadiness of his breathing.
The faint scent of cedar.
The way his gaze holds mine without apology.
“I won’t smile for them,” I say.
“I don’t need you to.”
“I won’t pretend affection.”
“I don’t require it.”
“Then what do you require?”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Conviction.”
My breath stutters.
He’s too close.
Too certain.
Too solid.
“I won’t be owned,” I say again, softer now.
“You won’t,” he replies.
But the way he says it sounds like a promise and a warning at once.
Silence stretches between us.
The city glows in daylight beyond the glass.
“They’ll keep testing,” he says finally. “They’ll keep marking you.”
“I know.”
“There’s one way to make them stop hunting you.”
My heart pounds.
“What?”
His eyes hold mine—dark, decisive.
“You’ll hate it.”