Chapter 2 - Shadows from the Past
I stared at the dead phone in my hand for a full minute, the plastic casing growing warm against my palm.
My father had been a quiet, unassuming man who spent his entire life smelling of motor oil and cheap coffee. He worked sixty-hour weeks at a dilapidated garage on the south side of Chicago, barely earning enough to keep our electricity from getting shut off. He was gentle, tired, and deeply broken after our mother died.
He had never mentioned knowing Roman Mercer.
He had never mentioned the mafia, the criminal underworld, or high-stakes downtown syndicates.
And he certainly never mentioned saving anyone's life—let alone the most feared crime lord in the Midwest.
Before I could process the shock, my phone vibrated sharply against the table, flashing a new text message from an unknown, encrypted number.
ROMAN MERCER: "Tessa, I owe your father a debt that can never truly be repaid. And I think you deserve to know the truth about who he really was."
My heart began pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Before my thumb could even hover over the keyboard to reply, another message flashed on the screen.
ROMAN MERCER: "Please don't mention my name to Eli until we've had a chance to talk face-to-face."
A cold shiver raced down my spine. Because I had never told Roman Mercer—nor anyone at Hawthorne House—that I had a brother. I kept my family life strictly guarded, a wall between my working-class existence and the wealthy patrons I served.
And suddenly, with terrifying clarity, I realized that the dangerous mafia boss I had threatened the night before knew far more about my family history, my home address, and my private life than he ever should have.
"Tessa?" Eli called out from the living room, his voice muffled. "Who was on the phone? Are we evicted?"
I took a deep, shuddering breath, smoothing down my shirt before walking out to face him. "No, El. We're not evicted."
He sat up on the couch, looking at my tense posture with suspicion. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What did Hawthorne House say?"
I made my decision in a fraction of a second. I couldn't tell him about Roman Mercer yet—not when my brother's health and our fragile stability hung in the balance.
"They... they offered me a promotion," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level. "Private catering division. Better hours, triple the pay, and full medical benefits."
Eli's eyes lit up, a brilliant smile breaking across his tired face. "Tessa! That's amazing! Why do you look so terrified? That solves all our problems!"
"It does," I murmured, forcing a weak smile. "It really does."
"When do you start?"
"Tomorrow night," I said, my stomach twisting into painful knots. "I have to meet the primary client downtown tonight to go over the service menu."
Eli nodded happily, completely unaware of the dark waters I was about to swim into.
Later that evening, dressed in my most professional black slacks and a modest cream blouse, I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address scribbled on a piece of paper: a high-rise glass monolith in the heart of downtown Chicago, towering over the river. The entire top three floors belonged to Roman Mercer.
My palms were slick with nervous sweat as the private elevator carried me silently upward, the digital floor numbers climbing past forty, fifty, sixty.
When the doors slid open, I stepped out onto polished dark marble floors. The penthouse was breathtaking—and terrifying. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering Chicago skyline at dusk. Minimalist, expensive modern furniture filled the massive open-concept room, accented by dark wood and subtle lighting.
Standing by the edge of the glass wall, looking out over the city lights with a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, was Roman Mercer.
Up close, without the dim, romantic lighting of the restaurant, he was imposing. The sharp tailoring of his charcoal vest emphasized his broad shoulders and lean, dangerous frame. The thin scar over his eyebrow caught the ambient light, casting a shadow across his pale gray eyes as he slowly turned to face me.
"You came," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through the floorboards.
I kept my spine straight, refusing to let him see how badly my knees were shaking. "You offered me an impossible amount of money and full medical coverage for my brother. I’d be a fool not to come."
A faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "You called me a monster last night, and twenty-four hours later, you're sitting in my living room. Pragmatic. I like that in a woman."
"I'm not here for your amusement, Mr. Mercer," I said sharply, refusing to back down. "You mentioned my father. You said he saved your life. I want to know what that means before I sign a single piece of paper."
Roman set his crystal glass down onto a marble side table with a soft clink. He walked toward me slowly, his footsteps completely silent against the stone floor. He stopped just a few feet away, close enough that I could smell the faint, clean scent of sandalwood and expensive cedar.
"Your father never told you about his past before he moved to Chicago?" Roman asked quietly.
"My father was a mechanic," I replied defensively. "He fixed engines. He paid his bills late. He broke his heart when my mother died. That was his entire life."
Roman shook his head, looking down at me with an expression that wasn't mocking—it was surprisingly heavy. Almost respectful.
"Before Daniel Vaughn was a mechanic in Chicago, Tessa, he lived in Boston," Roman said, his pale gray eyes searching my face. "Twenty years ago, he was a specialist working deep inside federal intelligence logistics. He watched men die. He carried secrets that could have toppled governments."
My breath caught in my throat. "You're lying."
"I don't lie," Roman stated flatly. "Especially not about the man who took a bullet meant for my chest when I was a reckless nineteen-year-old kid trying to prove myself in a war I had no business being in."
I stepped back, my mind spinning out of control. "A bullet? My dad? You're talking about a completely different person."
"Am I?" Roman walked over to a sleek, locked metal safe embedded in the wall, tapped a digital code, and pulled out a worn, yellowed manila folder. He opened it and extracted a heavy, old-fashioned silver pocket watch.
He held it out to me.
I reached out with trembling fingers and took the watch. My thumb brushed over the intricate, faded engraving on the back: D.V. - Boston, 2002.
It was my father's watch. The one he swore he had lost in a river when I was a little girl.
"He took the round in his left shoulder," Roman whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he watched my reaction. "The doctors saved his life, but he walked away from the syndicate wars forever. He hid in Chicago, changed his name, and tried to live a quiet, honest life to protect your mother and you. But people like us, Tessa... our pasts have a way of catching up to us."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, hot and sudden. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because for twenty years, I've looked for him to repay that debt," Roman said, stepping closer, his gaze burning into mine. "I found him six months ago—two weeks after he passed away. I was too late to save him. But I swore over his grave that I would watch over his children."
I stared up at the most feared mafia boss in America, the man I had threatened with utter ruin just the night before, realizing that the terrifying monster everyone whispered about in the dark was currently standing in front of me, offering me his entire protection.
"You didn't buy me," I whispered, the realization finally dawning on me. "You're looking out for me because of him."
"I am," Roman agreed softly, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my cheek. His fingers were warm, steady, and entirely unfrightening. "You threatened to destroy my life last night, Tessa. And do you want to know the funniest part?"
May you like
I swallowed hard. "What?"
"I think you actually would have found a way to do it."
