Roman (Daddies of the Shadows #4)

Chapter 1 Ava in Roman’s Shadow

Ava in Roman’s Shadow

The safe house breathes like a living thing - heat trapped behind thick walls, stale air warmed by old electrical wiring, the faint chemical bite of cleaner that never quite wins.

Roman stands in the entry corridor with his back to the door, gun angled down but never away, eyes cutting the room the way they always do: corners first, exits second, people last.

Ava’s shoes are still on. She’s not pacing, not crying, not breaking.

She’s crouched by the small table near the kitchenette, one hand braced on the wood like it’s steadying her body more than her nerves.

The other holds a slim folder stamped with a private seal she’d made herself - evidence cataloged, indexed, and ready to be used.

Roman watches the folder more than her. That’s the problem with Ava: she moves like she’s already decided, and then she makes it impossible to argue with her decisions.

“You said you’d be done for the night,” he tells her, voice low enough that the walls have to lean in to hear. He doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t need to. His threat lives in the calm.

Ava looks up. Dark lashes, sharp focus, the kind of controlled fear that doesn’t beg for comfort. “I said I’d be careful. Those aren’t the same.”

Roman’s jaw flexes. The internal leak - the one he’s hunting inside The Shadows - has been a knife at the center of his planning since the last bloodshed.

He’d brought Ava here because it’s private, because it’s been scrubbed, because the hands that built it didn’t gossip. Because he believed in systems.

And because he believed he could keep her alive without letting her see the cracks.

He steps closer, slow, deliberate. The floorboards complain under his weight, a small sound that lands too loud in the quiet. “Careful means you stop digging. You stop thinking you can file anything. You stop making yourself the next headline they’re chasing.”

Ava’s gaze flicks to his gun, then back to his face. Like she’s checking whether he’s bluffing. Like she’s weighing the cost of calling his bluff. “They’re already chasing me.”

Roman feels the words hit the part of him that refuses to be surprised. He’d expected resistance. He hadn’t expected certainty.

“Who told you that?” he asks.

Ava straightens. The folder stays in her hand, tight enough that her knuckles look pale under the kitchen light.

“Nobody has to tell me. I’ve been reading patterns for years, Roman.

The way they moved after Book 3 - how quickly they adjusted.

How they didn’t just go after bodies. They went after access. ”

Roman’s fingers tighten around the strap of his weapon. “Access.”

“The evidence I carry,” she says. “Not the money. Not the leverage. The proofs. They want what I have because it makes their world unstable.”

Roman studies her mouth when she says it, like he can catch the lie in the shape of the syllables. Ava doesn’t lie well. She doesn’t lie unless she’s protecting someone, and the way she’s protecting herself right now is different - harder, colder.

“Your evidence is the trap,” he says. “If you submit it, if you let your name touch their radar again, they’ll follow the signal straight to you.”

Ava’s breath is steady, but her eyes burn. “You think I don’t understand that?”

“I think you understand too much,” Roman answers. “That’s why you’ll do it anyway.”

She stands with a suddenness that makes the air tighten.

Heat from the nearby radiator curls against her legs, and the smell of her soap - clean, expensive - cuts through the stale safe-house scent.

She’s close enough now that Roman can see the faint bruise on her collarbone from where someone grabbed her during the chaos before they got her out.

It’s mostly faded, but it’s still there.

A reminder that she’s been in rooms with men who don’t ask permission.

Roman’s protective instincts flare like a reflex he can’t train out.

Ava tilts her head. “You’re not just keeping me safe. You’re keeping me quiet.”

Roman doesn’t pretend. “Quiet keeps you breathing.”

“That’s not the same as safe.” She shifts the folder slightly, tapping the edge against the table. A sharp sound. A metronome for her anger. “You’re hunting a leak. That’s why you brought me here. But the leak isn’t the only thing moving.”

Roman’s eyes narrow. “Explain.”

Ava’s fingers loosen just enough for the seal to catch the light. “The courier you brought back - ”

Roman’s throat tightens. He hates that she knows the courier as more than a body. He hates that he let her stay aware.

Ava continues anyway. “He wasn’t carrying just messages. He was carrying instructions. The kind that don’t exist for internal control. They exist for targeting.”

Roman’s pulse kicks harder. “Targeting what?”

Ava’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Me.”

The corridor feels smaller. The safe house hums faintly with electricity, a low vibration in the walls. Roman hears his own breath, controlled, measured, and for the first time since the last screams, it doesn’t feel like enough.

“You’re guessing,” he says, because denial is a weapon too.

Ava shakes her head once. “I’m not guessing. I recognized the legal language in the instructions. It wasn’t meant for a trial. It was meant to make me react - me and anyone who touched my evidence.”

Roman steps closer until the table is between them only by inches. “You think they want you to file.”

“I know they want me to be visible.” Ava’s voice lowers. “And I know what happens when I’m visible. I’ve lived through it in courtrooms where the judge’s gavel sounded like a warning.”

Roman’s anger sharpens into something more dangerous than rage: focus. He crosses his arms, forcing stillness, forcing himself to keep his hands off her until he can do it for the right reason. “The Shadows doesn’t leak because we don’t allow it.”

Ava’s expression flickers - something like pity, or maybe resentment. “Then you’re the leak.”

Roman’s blood runs colder. “Don’t.”

She meets his stare without flinching. “You think you’re controlling the variables. You think you’re the only one moving pieces on a board. But you’re not the only one who knows what you do.”

Roman’s discipline strains at the edges of his control. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake the truth into her, wants to drag her out of this room and bury her somewhere the syndicate can’t breathe.

Instead he says, “Where did you hear the targeting language?”

Ava’s eyes flick toward the folder. Toward what she’s brought. Toward what she hasn’t put away because she can’t stand to be told to wait. “From the courier’s hands. He tried to give it to me without thinking I’d read it. He thought I was just bait.”

Roman’s mouth goes tight. “He didn’t have time to explain.”

“He didn’t need to.” Ava’s voice turns hard, and the hardness is the kind that’s earned. “Roman, I’m not stupid. I’m an attorney. I know when someone’s trying to frame a narrative. I know when someone’s giving me a script.”

Roman’s gaze drops to her hands. There’s a faint tremor in her fingers that she hides by tightening her grip. He can feel it even from across the room - her body holding steady while her mind fights a war with itself.

He forces his voice to stay level. “If you’re right - if they’re targeting you - then every minute you keep that folder out, every minute you keep yourself available, is a chance for them to land.”

Ava’s eyes flash. “So you’ll take it?”

Roman’s stare locks on hers. “You want me to take it.”

“I want you to stop pretending you can control me,” she says. “And I want you to stop using the leak as a reason to shut down anything that could save me.”

Roman feels the old command in his bones - the voice that orders men to stand down, the instinct to correct a threat before it turns into a catastrophe.

He can’t give her the distance she’s asking for.

He can’t give her the control she refuses to let him have.

So he does the only thing he can do without breaking her entirely.

He reaches out, slow, palm open.

Ava doesn’t back up. She watches his hand like it’s a test. Like it’s a question.

Roman takes the folder from her grip. The seal scrapes softly against the table as he sets it aside. His thumb brushes the edge - one quick check for hidden compartments, hidden messages, anything that would make the evidence more dangerous than it already is.

Ava’s shoulders tense. Her eyes darken. “Roman.”

He doesn’t look at her. “If you’re going to keep thinking like an investigator, you need to do it from a place where you don’t bleed.”

Her voice comes out rougher. “You’re not my handler.”

“No.” Roman finally meets her gaze. “I’m your shield.”

Ava’s lips part, and for a heartbeat her anger looks like something else - hurt, maybe, or the exhaustion of always being the one who has to be brave first. She swallows. “Shields don’t get to decide what armor costs.”

Roman’s control cracks just enough that he feels it. Ava is right, and that makes him hate the truth. He can protect her from bullets, from knives, from men with patience for violence.

He can’t protect her from the part of her that believes evidence is power.

The safe house door handle clicks.

Roman’s body reacts before his mind can. He draws his gun up, muzzle pointed toward the sound. The corridor goes still except for the faint rattle of the radiator. Ava steps beside him - too close for comfort, too fast for caution. Her eyes are trained on the entrance now, not on him.

Roman’s voice is a blade. “Stay behind me.”

Ava’s laugh is short and humorless. “You’re not the only one who knows how to survive.”

Roman doesn’t argue. He shifts his stance, shoulder angling to cover her if the door opens. The silence stretches until it becomes a pressure on the ears.

Then the door doesn’t open. A knock comes instead - soft, measured, wrong for someone who expects to be let in. Three taps. A pause. Two taps. Like a code.

Roman’s gaze flicks to Ava. “Do you recognize that?”

Ava’s eyes narrow. “No.”