Chapter 3 - ROMAN LEARNED WHERE THE LINE WAS
Roman found the apartment on December 27.
He did not come.
That mattered.
Paul figured it out because one of St. Matthew’s volunteers used a toll transponder attached to the catering van.
From there, security narrowed the route.
Then one of Roman’s men recognized Lena’s car near the apartment.
Paul told Roman.
Roman told everyone to stop.
I learned that later.
At the time, all I knew was that nobody appeared outside.
No black SUVs.
No men in wool coats.
No Roman.
For the first time, he knew exactly where I was and accepted that knowing did not equal permission.
On December 28, a package arrived.
No jewelry.
No flowers.
Documents.
Every revoked security authorization signed by Roman acknowledging termination.
A letter.
I did not open it for six hours.
Finally:
Savannah,
Claire Donnelly sent notice that you revoked the continuity agreements. I have instructed every Vascari employee that none of them may track, transport, contact, photograph or report your movements unless you request it. That includes Paul.
Your personal funds have been returned. The family office moved them under a threat protocol I authorized. I should have told you. I did not.
I keep wanting to explain why. Every explanation sounds like an excuse.
There was a credible threat against you. I responded by making your world smaller instead of giving you the information and letting you decide what risk you could accept.
I thought that was protection.
I understand why you may call it control.
I will not come unless you invite me.
I would like to attend the birth if you want me there. If you do not, I will accept that too.
Roman
No “I love you.”
No demand.
Good.
Then a second page.
The affair began in August. It became physical in September. It ended Christmas Eve after you left, though Celeste had already told me it had to end. You did not imagine anything. Pregnancy did not make you irrational. I said that because it was easier than telling the truth.
I put the letter down.
That confession hurt more than every vague apology.
Because it returned reality to me.
I had seen correctly.
Felt correctly.
Asked correctly.
He had lied.
I kept the letter.
Not for romance.
Evidence mattered emotionally too.
Meanwhile, Domenic Vascari discovered I had left Roman.
That changed the threat.
The family’s internal conflict became public enough that gossip moved through Chicago’s private clubs.
Domenic apparently told several old associates:
“A wife who leaves takes information with her.”
I knew almost nothing useful.
That never mattered to paranoid men.
Claire recommended temporary protective arrangements through licensed private security unaffiliated with Roman.
I hated the idea.
Then accepted.
My choice.
Difference.
Two guards.
I knew their names.
Their company.
Their rules.
I could dismiss them.
No tracking app.
No family office.
The first night, I slept better.
On December 30, one of Domenic’s men approached the building.
He did not break in.
He simply waited across the street.
Claire called police.
Also Roman, through attorneys.
Roman’s response arrived thirty minutes later.
Not men.
A written declaration through his counsel stating that any Vascari affiliate contacting me without consent acted against his explicit orders and would no longer be associated with his businesses.
Domenic laughed at the declaration.
Then sent me flowers.
White roses.
Card:
Family should be together when a child arrives.
I threw them away.
Roman called Claire.
Not me.
“What do you want me to do?”
She asked my permission before answering.
I told her.
“Nothing illegal.”
Roman apparently laughed bitterly.
“Savannah said that?”
“Yes.”
“Of course she did.”
He filed for a civil protective order based on documented threats.
A Mafia boss asking a court for help.
Chicago nearly tore itself in half from irony.
But he did it.
Paper.
Evidence.
Hearings.
Domenic was formally warned away from me.
Then Roman did something bigger.
He shut down the Vascari private lending operation.
Immediately.
Millions in outstanding balances.
Accounts.
Collectors.
People who considered those territories inherited property.
Domenic exploded.
Roman’s explanation to senior men was simple:
“My daughter will not be born into a business that teaches men family members are leverage.”
That sentence reached me through Paul.
I wanted to dismiss it as performance.
Maybe part was.
Change often began mixed with fear.
The real test would be whether he continued when I still refused to come home.
I did.
New Year’s Eve passed.
Roman did not appear.
January 3.
No Roman.
January 5.
A prenatal appointment.
I had changed obstetricians.
Not because mine had done anything wrong.
Because walking into the Vascari-private suite felt like entering Roman’s system.
Lena recommended Dr. Priya Shah.
Normal office.
Waiting room with crying toddlers.
No security elevator.
I loved it.
At thirty-eight weeks and four days, Dr. Shah said:
“Everything looks good.”
Then:
“Who is your support person?”
I froze.
Sophia.
Lena.
Maybe Roman?
The answer hurt because I wanted him there.
Wanting him did not mean forgiving him.
That distinction was becoming exhausting.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s okay.”
“Decide when you decide.”
Another sentence I apparently needed a doctor to give me permission to believe.
That evening, I called Roman.
First time directly since Christmas.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Savannah.”
No dramatic speech.
Good.
“I have a question.”
“Yes.”
“If you come to the birth, who comes with you?”
“No one.”
“Paul?”
“No.”
“Security?”
“Outside the hospital if you approve.”
“If not?”
“None.”
“Your mother?”
“No.”
“Domenic?”
Roman’s voice hardened.
“Never.”
I breathed.
“Will you leave if I ask?”
“Yes.”
“Even during labor?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I’m making the wrong decision?”
Long pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
Good.
“Okay.”
His breathing changed.
“Okay what?”
“You can come.”
He did not say thank you.
That would have made it strange.
He whispered:
“I’ll be there.”
Then, after another pause:
“If you change your mind, tell me.”
Growth.
Small.
Real.
The following night, at 2:17 a.m., my water broke on Lena’s ugly brown couch.
Sophia jumped up screaming.
I started laughing.
Then a contraction hit.
I stopped laughing.
Lena looked at the clock.
“Hospital.”
I grabbed my bag.
Then stared at my phone.
Roman had been awake every night for two weeks.
I knew because he sent exactly one message at 10:00 p.m. each evening:
I’m available if you need me. No reply required.
I called.
He answered.
“Savannah?”
“My water broke.”
Silence.
Then something crashed on his side.
“Roman?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I knocked over a chair.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“Go to St. Gabriel’s.”
“I’m coming.”
“No convoy.”
“Understood.”
“No Domenic.”
“I would rather deliver the baby myself.”
“Do not.”
“Understood.”
A contraction hit.
I gripped the counter.
Roman heard my breathing.
His voice changed instantly.
“Savannah.”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you need—”
“Roman.”
He stopped.
I breathed through it.
Then:
“See you there.”
I hung up.
Twenty-four minutes later, when I entered the maternity floor, Roman was sitting alone in the hallway.
No guards.
No entourage.
No coat.
His shirt buttons were uneven.
I had never seen Roman Vascari look less powerful.
He stood when he saw me.
Did not touch me.
“Hi.”
One word.
I stared.
“Hi.”
Then another contraction hit.
I grabbed his forearm automatically.
Roman froze.
So did I.
But I did not let go.
Not because he had earned everything back.
Because labor hurt.
May you like
And sometimes a hand was just a hand.
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