Chapter 1 - THE DOORS LOCK FROM THE FRONT
“The doors lock from the front,” Roman said.
Morgana turned sharply.
He had been watching her reflection in the dark glass.
Not staring at her.
Watching her plan.
Her hand moved away from the door handle.
“I wasn’t going to jump.”
“Yes, you were.”
She hated that he was right.
The shaved-headed driver glanced once into the mirror.
Roman said:
“Eyes forward, Anton.”
The driver obeyed.
Morgana tightened both arms around her duffel bag.
“So what happens now?”
Roman looked toward her.
“What do you think happens?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
She almost laughed.
“You paid forty thousand dollars for me.”
“No.”
Her stomach tightened.
“I was there.”
“I paid forty thousand dollars to close Jason’s debt.”
“And he gave you me.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like buying me.”
Roman’s jaw hardened slightly.
“I did not agree with his definition of the transaction.”
“Then why take me?”
He looked out the window.
“Because if I said no in that kitchen, he would have offered you to somebody else before morning.”
Morgana went still.
“What?”
“Jason owes more than me.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“To who?”
“Men less patient than I am.”
The SUV moved onto a wider road.
Boston glowed ahead.
Morgana stared at Roman.
“So you took me to protect me?”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
Roman continued.
“I took you because Jason used your name as collateral in conversations with men who should never have known you existed.”
Cold spread through her stomach.
“What conversations?”
“He promised access to you.”
Her face emptied.
Roman saw it.
His voice became harder.
“Nothing happened.”
“Yet.”
“No.”
He paused.
“And nothing will.”
Morgana looked away.
Rain slid down the window.
For the first time since leaving the house, she stopped thinking about escaping the vehicle.
Not because she trusted Roman.
Because the world behind her had suddenly become worse than she understood.
Twenty-five minutes later, the SUV passed through iron gates.
Morgana expected a mansion.
She got one.
Stone.
Three stories.
Old New England architecture restored with too much money.
No gold lions.
No fountains.
No men carrying machine guns on the steps.
That almost made it more unsettling.
Roman got out first.
Anton took Morgana’s bag.
She grabbed it back.
“I can carry it.”
Anton looked at Roman.
Roman said:
“She can carry it.”
Interesting.
Inside, a woman in her sixties waited in the foyer.
Gray hair.
Black dress.
Sharp eyes.
“Mr. Costa.”
“Helena.”
The woman looked at Morgana.
No shock.
No judgment.
Just assessment.
“This is Morgana.”
“I assumed.”
Roman removed his coat.
“Guest room east wing.”
Morgana laughed once.
“Guest?”
Roman looked at her.
“What word would you prefer?”
“Hostage?”
Helena’s eyebrows rose.
Roman did not react.
“You are free to leave.”
Morgana stared.
“What?”
“The front door is there.”
He pointed.
“The gate will open if you ask.”
She looked toward the door.
Then back at him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Roman nodded toward the stairs.
“Helena will show you the room. The bedroom locks from the inside. Nobody has a key except Helena, and she will give it to you.”
“Why?”
“So you can sleep.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
Nothing about him seemed simple.
Morgana followed Helena upstairs.
The bedroom was larger than Jason’s entire first floor.
Cream walls.
Fireplace.
Private bathroom.
A bed so large Morgana almost laughed.
Her duffel looked ridiculous on the rug.
Helena opened a drawer.
Placed a brass key inside Morgana’s palm.
“Inside lock.”
Morgana stared.
“If I lock it?”
“No one enters.”
“Roman?”
“No one.”
“Why are you helping him do this?”
Helena smiled faintly.
“I have worked for Mr. Costa twenty-three years.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“You’ll do well here.”
Morgana frowned.
“I’m not staying.”
“Then you’ll do well wherever you go.”
Helena left.
Morgana locked the door.
Twice.
She did not sleep.
At 2:07 a.m., she heard no footsteps.
At 3:14, no one tried the handle.
At 4:26, she finally drifted off wearing jeans and one shoe.
She woke to sunlight.
For one glorious second, she forgot where she was.
Then she saw the key.
Roman.
Jason.
Forty thousand dollars.
Her stomach dropped.
Someone had left a tray outside.
Coffee.
Toast.
Eggs.
No note.
Morgana opened the door carefully.
The hallway was empty.
She ate everything.
Then hated herself for being hungry enough to be grateful.
At ten, Helena knocked.
“Mr. Costa would like to see you.”
Morgana tightened her grip on the key.
“Where?”
“Library.”
“Door open?”
Helena’s mouth almost twitched.
“If you wish.”
“Yes.”
The library smelled like leather and wood smoke.
Roman stood beside a desk.
No suit jacket.
White shirt.
Sleeves rolled.
He looked less like a man who had purchased someone and more like an exhausted banker.
That did not make him safe.
On the desk lay three things.
A black folder.
A white envelope.
And forty thousand dollars in bundled cash.
Morgana stopped.
Roman gestured toward the chair.
She remained standing.
“Fine.”
He opened the black folder.
Inside was Jason’s debt agreement.
Roman picked it up.
Then tore it in half.
Morgana stared.
He tore it again.
And again.
“What are you doing?”
“Jason’s gambling debt to me is finished.”
“Why?”
Roman placed the pieces into a brass tray.
Then lit them.
Paper curled black.
Forty thousand dollars vanished as a legal claim in less than thirty seconds.
Morgana watched the flames.
“What about me?”
Roman looked at her.
“There is no ‘you’ in the agreement.”
“He gave me to you.”
“He attempted to.”
“And you took me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Roman pushed the white envelope toward her.
“Open it.”
Inside was a photocopy of a bank statement.
Morgana recognized the name immediately.
EVELYN GRAY CARTER ESTATE ACCOUNT
Her mother.
Balance at death:
$186,440.
Morgana stopped breathing.
“That’s impossible.”
Roman said nothing.
“My mother had nothing.”
“She had almost two hundred thousand dollars.”
“No.”
Morgana’s hands shook.
“She died when I was nine.”
“Yes.”
“Jason told me there was no life insurance. No savings.”
“He lied.”
Morgana looked at the next page.
Withdrawals.
Transfers.
Years.
Her father’s name repeated again and again.
Jason Carter.
$12,000.
$8,500.
$25,000.
$17,400.
The account drained over six years.
By the time Morgana turned eighteen:
$1,903.
Her knees weakened.
She sat.
Roman watched silently.
“He stole it?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Almost.”
“Why do you have this?”
Roman’s face changed.
“Because your mother once worked for my family.”
Morgana looked up.
“What?”
“She was an accountant.”
“My mother worked at a pharmacy.”
“After.”
Roman sat across from her.
“When she was twenty-four, Evelyn Gray worked for Costa Import Group.”
Morgana laughed nervously.
“My mother worked for the mafia?”
“She worked in accounting.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
Roman looked toward the fire.
“She discovered money disappearing.”
“Jason?”
“No.”
“My father.”
Silence.
Morgana stared.
Roman continued.
“Your mother found evidence my father was stealing from partners and using legitimate company accounts to hide criminal revenue.”
“Did she tell someone?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Roman had been twenty-six.
Still living beneath his father’s authority.
Evelyn had brought him ledgers.
Warned him that if the wrong people found out, she could be killed.
Roman helped her leave the company.
He arranged severance money through legitimate accounts.
“She used that money to build the savings account?”
“Partly.”
“And then married Jason.”
“Yes.”
Morgana looked at her mother’s photograph in her mind.
Soft smile.
Brown hair.
A woman who always counted grocery money twice.
“Did Jason know where the money came from?”
“Eventually.”
“What else?”
Roman hesitated.
Morgana immediately understood.
“There’s always something else.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Your mother came to me once after she married him.”
“When?”
“You were seven.”
“Why?”
“She was afraid.”
Morgana’s throat closed.
“Of Jason?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
Roman looked directly at her.
“Not enough.”
That answer mattered.
Morgana said nothing.
Roman continued.
“She wanted to leave him. I offered money.”
“Of course you did.”
“I offered protection.”
“Did she take it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She thought Jason would change.”
Morgana laughed bitterly.
“He didn't.”
“No.”
“She died two years later.”
Roman’s eyes darkened.
Morgana noticed.
“What?”
“Her death.”
“She had pneumonia.”
“So you were told.”
Morgana stopped breathing.
Roman reached into the folder.
Another document.
Hospital admission.
Toxicology.
Police report.
Her mother had been admitted after collapsing at home.
Sedatives in her blood.
More than prescribed.
Bruising around one wrist.
Jason claimed Evelyn had been drinking and accidentally doubled medication.
No charges.
“Why have I never seen this?”
“You were nine.”
“And later?”
“Jason sealed what he could through a lawyer.”
“How?”
“Money.”
“Her money.”
“Yes.”
Morgana felt sick.
“Are you saying he killed her?”
Roman shook his head.
“I’m saying I don’t know.”
“Then why now?”
“Because Jason appeared at one of my poker rooms six months ago.”
Morgana stared.
Roman continued.
“He owed money. We investigated him before extending anything.”
“You found me.”
“Yes.”
“The account.”
“Yes.”
“My mother.”
“Yes.”
“And you still loaned him money?”
Roman’s silence was ugly.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see what he would do when trapped.”
Morgana stood.
“You used me.”
“No.”
“You used him.”
“Yes.”
“And I was inside the experiment.”
Roman rose.
“Morgana—”
“You knew my father was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“You kept giving him credit.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted him desperate.”
“Yes.”
Her hand shook.
“For what?”
Roman looked at the burned debt agreement.
“Because I believed desperate men tell the truth.”
“And did he?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Roman’s expression went cold.
“He said your mother’s death wasn’t supposed to happen.”
The room disappeared.
Morgana grabbed the back of the chair.
“What?”
Roman continued.
“Last night, after you went upstairs, my men recorded Jason trying to borrow money again.”
“He said that?”
“He said Evelyn was only supposed to sleep.”
Morgana stared.
Every sound in the room became too loud.
The fire.
Clock.
Her own breathing.
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
Roman’s voice softened.
“But we will.”
Morgana looked at him.
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“You won't.”
“Morgana.”
“This is my mother.”
“Yes.”
“You do not get to handle Jason your way.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
She saw the conflict.
Power.
Habit.
Violence.
Morgana stepped closer.
“If you want me to believe I am free, prove it.”
Roman said nothing.
“Police. Evidence. Lawyers. Whatever normal people use.”
His eyes hardened.
“Normal systems fail.”
“So do men with guns.”
Silence.
Then Roman nodded.
“Fine.”
Morgana stared.
“What?”
“We do it your way.”
May you like
And for the first time since she entered his house, Morgana became more afraid of hope than of him.
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