Chapter 26 – Roman
The intel was clean, surgically precise: Chang’s decoy warehouse was hit just as the auction began. He thought he was playing a shell game, buying himself time to sell Elara before I located the real site. He was wrong.
My heart is a war drum in my chest, beating only for blood and vengeance. I am not a strategist now. I am a feral beast, driven by the absolute certainty that if I am a second late, David Chang will ruin her. Auction her publicly, punish her. These words are a mantra of rage.
Luka is at my shoulder, and Niko and Adrian are behind me. Dimitri and Lev are coming from a few feet away. We don't use the doors. Grenades shatter the walls on the north side, turning drywall and steel into dust and noise.
We storm the estate like an avenging army.
The first wave of Chang’s mercenaries—idiots hired for a simple security detail—are caught entirely off-guard. Bullets rip through the hallways, shredding plaster and flesh. I move through the carnage with one goal—Elara.
The noise is deafening. I don't hear the screams; I only hear the silence where her voice should be. I track the layout of the complex based on the initial breach reports. Chang keeps his prized assets in the main house, typically centered on a grand social space. The auction is in the ballroom.
A man steps out of a utility closet, raising an automatic rifle. Before he can pull the trigger, I’ve emptied my clip into his chest. He drops, his body slamming the floor, silenced. I don't look down. I move.
We hit the ballroom corridor. It's heavily fortified, but Lev’s team has already disabled the surveillance and security locks. We kick down the double doors.
The noise of the assault—the gunfire, the shouts, the pounding boots—collides with the sickening, contained noise of the auction room. Laughter. Clinking glasses. That oily voice announcing the bid price.
The scene freezes me for one critical second: a chandelier glittering like mockery, men in immaculate suits, and Elara—my wife—standing on a makeshift stage, dressed like a prize, her face bruised, but her eyes blazing with defiance.
She is being held by two men. Her father is at the edge of the room, sipping his drink, utterly detached.
The world tilts red.
“That’s my wife!” The roar tears from my chest, primal and unrecognizable.
I empty the rest of my tactical clip into the air above the crowd, shattering the glittering chandelier and showering the room in darkness and raining glass. Chaos erupts. The buyers scream, diving under tables.
I don’t pause. I move straight toward the stage, cutting through the panic. The man who had just announced Elara’s price tries to grab me. I smash the butt of my rifle across his jaw, and he collapses without a sound.
The two guards holding Elara freeze, too slow to react. I cut them down with merciless precision, two quick bursts to the center mass, and they fall, releasing her.
She stands there, swaying slightly, the ropes still tight on her wrists, her silk dress torn. She looks terrified, but her gaze—that beautiful, furious defiance—is fixed on me.
I reach the stage. I am a machine of vengeance.
The idiot who was obviously about to buy Elara starts to beg, but I’m way past caring. He scrabbles for a gun. He doesn’t get the chance. I kick the gun away. I don’t use my rifle. I use my hands. I grab him by the collar, haul him onto the stage, and slam him down.
I don't shoot him. I find a velvet rope used for crowd control, wrap it once, twice, around his throat, and pull until his face turns purple and the life leaves his eyes. I wanted him to feel the choke, the helplessness, the final price of crossing me.
His body goes limp. I toss the corpse at Elara’s feet, my breath coming in ragged, guttural gasps. My knuckles are bloodied.
I turn to Elara. She is trembling, but she’s standing. I rip the rope free from her wrists, the action tearing the skin, but I can’t be gentle now. I pull her hard against my bloodied shirt.
“You’re mine,” I repeat, the words a raw, fundamental truth, a marriage vow rewritten in the language of the Bratva. “You’re mine.”
She sobs into my shirt, clutching me as if her life depends on it. She doesn’t fight the blood, the grime, or the violence I just unleashed. She just holds on, clinging to me as if I am the only anchor left in the broken world.
With her weight locked against my side, I turn, facing the hail of gunfire and the panicked chaos of the room.
I fight my way through the pocket of Chang’s mercenaries near the exit, my rifle still hot, my arm locked around Elara’s waist. My men take my lead, covering our retreat as we clear the path.
We are a single, urgent unit moving through the carnage.
I don’t stop until we reach the waiting armored car. I shove her into the passenger seat, buckling her in, then jump into the driver’s side.
I slam the car into gear, the tires squealing as we leave the premises. The sound of fighting fades behind us, replaced by the heavy silence of the closed, tinted car. We’re the only two here.
I glance over at her. Her body is rigid, her face pale, the bruise on her cheek standing out against her skin, but she's not crying anymore. She’s staring straight ahead, the horror of the ballroom etched into her eyes.
I reach across the center console and cup her head, turning her face into my side so I can see her.
I feel her finally relax against my touch, burying herself in my shirt.
I stroke her hair, whispering sweet words—words I rarely use, words that feel rough and unfamiliar on my tongue, but which she needs to hear.
“I’m so sorry, printsessa,” I whisper, the self-hatred sharp. “I should have come sooner. Forgive me for letting them touch you.”
I beg her forgiveness—not for the violence I just committed, but for the violence she endured.
I continue to hold her, driving through the quiet city streets, speaking softly in protective Russian until the sight of the estate’s high stone walls comes into view.
She doesn’t understand a word I said, but she doesn’t ask questions. She just lets me care for her.
I have her back. And now, David Chang will pay.
I hold her like she’s the most fragile thing in the world, and—for the first time since this nightmare began—I let myself believe that she’s safe.
When we arrive at the estate, I don’t waste any time taking her up to the suite.
I carry her through the bathroom doorway without thinking, set her down on the edge of the tub, and drop to my knees so I’m at her level.
Her eyes are glazed, small breaths catching.
When she looks at me, I don’t see the defiant woman from a week ago; I see someone hollowed out by fear and outrage.
I hate whoever did this with a heat that numbs my palms.
“Hold still,” I tell her, voice low. “I’m going to get you clean.”
She doesn’t say anything—can’t, maybe—but she lets me.
She lets me peel off the silk gown that smells like other men and other rooms. There’s no prurience in what I do, only methodical tenderness: I unlace the knots, peel the heels from her feet, and lay a robe across her shoulders so the cold doesn’t bite what’s left of her.
The tub water is warm, not hot—just enough to soothe.
I cup my hands and bring the water up to her face first, because I know she needs her face washed of the dust and blood and the last traces of that awful room.
She blinks into the water, shivers, and for a moment her lips part as if she might say something.
I press a fingertip to her jaw and tilt her chin gently.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, and I mean it with a conviction that surprises me. “I’ve got you.”
I wash her hair carefully, fingers working at the tangles, rinsing until the salon scent is gone and there’s only her.
I find bruises—small, ugly maps on pale skin—and I wash around them, but never too roughly.
When I come to the dark smear along her forearm, I press the washcloth, and the cloth comes away red; my stomach twists, but my hands don’t stop. I rinse until the water runs clear.
She lets out a sound—half sob, half relief—when I lift her chin and wipe her face. Her lashes are wet; when she opens her eyes, they’re smaller but sharper, like steel that’s been bent and tempered.
I rinse her off in silence, careful not to hurt her where the bruises bloom dark against her skin. When I’m done, I grab a towel and dry her slowly, methodically—like she might shatter if I rush.
Then I wrap her in one of my robes, the thick black one that swallows her whole, and lift her into my arms. She doesn’t resist. Her head rests against my chest, and the steady rhythm of her breathing is the only thing holding me together.
Back in the room, I lay her gently on the bed. The sheets are clean, the lights low, the chaos of the world locked outside for one fragile moment.
“How do you feel?” I ask, my voice quieter than I expect.
For a second, I think she won’t answer. Then—she smiles. Small, trembling, but real. Before I can move, she reaches for me, arms slipping around my neck as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I knew you’d come. I just…I was starting to lose hope.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in like oxygen after drowning.
“I told you I’d find you,” I say against her skin. “No matter what.”
She nods, her fingers gripping my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to the promise.
“Sweetheart, I have to go find David.” I kiss her forehead as she lies back, smooth and spent. “I have to make sure he never lifts his head again.”
She blinks up at me, exhausted, and for the first time, there’s no fight in her eyes—only something like trust. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Her words boost my morale, and as I step out of the suite, I’m hyperfocused. I have one purpose: to kill David Chang. I’m heading down the steps when my phone rings. Lev’s name flashes on the screen.
He doesn’t waste words. “David’s in custody. We’ve got him. I’ve sent you a location .”
It’s the best news I’ve heard all week. I don’t think—I move. The Jeep eats the road; the city becomes a smear of headlights and cold. Every red light is an insult. I drive like a man on fire.
The warehouse reeks of oil, concrete, and old fear. They’ve got him slumped in the center, ropes biting into his wrists. His suit is a ruin; he looks small, like a paper king caught in a storm. Lev, Adrian, Niko, Dimitri, Luka—my men—stand around him, slow and steady as predators.
I don’t hesitate. Three strides, and my fist meets his face. It’s not careful; it’s all the rage knotted in me. The sound is ugly and final. He spits, tries to laugh. His laugh is thin.
“Look at you now,” I hiss, voice raw with something like contempt. “Pathetic. You tried to sell her. You thought you could turn my wife into merchandise.”
He scrabbles for bargains like a drowning man. “Roman—please—she’s worth billions. Split it. Take the money. Don’t—please—”
I kneel until we’re eye to eye, close enough that he can see the damnation on my face. My hand finds his chin and doesn’t tremble.
“Elara is priceless to me,” I say, slow and cold. “She’s my wife. She’s not for sale.” My thumb presses into his jaw until he flinches. “You will never make her someone else’s bargain. Not while I’m breathing.”
He snarls, venom spilling from his lips. “Suit yourself. She’ll leave you dry and hanging. She’s a bitch. She’s—”
The words snap.
I don’t give him the courtesy of more pleading.
The knife is already in my hand before thought catches up—small, precise, iron cold against my palm.
I drive it in just below David’s ribs, hard and clean.
He doubles, a choked sound, eyes bugging, mouth forming a question that dies on his tongue.
His hands claw for air. For a beat, I watch the life slide out of him like water through cupped fingers.
When he stops moving, I turn to my brothers. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “Whenever you all need me, I promise to be there.”