At 10 P.M., They Found His Divorced Wife Pregnant and Unconscious—By Dawn, Chicago’s Most Feared Man Learned the Betrayal Was Inside His Own House

At 3:15 a.m., Claire woke up.

The first thing she saw was the plaster medallion on the ceiling—the hand-carved floral wreath surrounding the crystal chandelier. She knew every inch of that ceiling. She had stared at it during her wedding night; she had stared at it through three years of feverish nights and quiet mornings.

She was back in Roman’s bed.

Panic flared in her chest, sharp and cold. Her heart rate monitor mounted on the bedside table began to beep faster—ping, ping, ping-ping-ping.

“Quiet,” a low voice said from the darkness near the corner. “You’ll tear the vein.”

Claire turned her head quickly, her breath catching in her throat.

Roman was sitting in the high-backed velvet wingchair three feet away. He had stripped off his coat and tie; his dark hair was uncombed, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the silver chain and saint’s medal he had worn since childhood. He looked older than he had six months ago. Dark, hollow circles sat beneath his eyes, and his strong, square jaw was rough with black stubble.

Claire pulled the blanket higher up her chest, her fingers tightening around the fabric. “Where is my coat?”

Roman didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his massive hands clasped together.

“You’re in my house, Claire,” he said gently. “You’re safe.”

“I don't want to be here,” she whispered, her voice rasping like dried paper. “I want my things. I have to go to work at six.”

“You’re not going to work at six,” Roman said. “You’re not going to clean offices in River North, and you’re not going to carry coffee cups in Ukrainian Village.”

Claire froze. A cold prickle of shame washed over her skin. “You were watching me?”

“No,” Roman said, and the pain in his voice was so raw it made her pause. “I wasn't watching you. That’s the tragedy, Claire. I thought you were in England. I thought you were sitting in a garden in Kensington, safe from the people who want to kill me.”

Claire stared at him, her pale blue eyes searching his face for the lie she expected to find. “England? Roman, your lawyer handed me an eviction release and five hundred dollars cash in a brown envelope outside the courthouse. He said if I stayed in the city, you’d have me removed.”

Roman’s eyes went completely dark.

“Which lawyer?” he asked, his voice deathly quiet.

“Vance,” she said. “Howard Vance.”

Roman sat back slowly. Howard Vance had been the family’s chief legal counsel for thirty years. He was Julian’s uncle.

“Why didn't you tell me about the baby?” Roman asked softly, his gaze dropping to the visible swell under her blanket.

Claire turned her head toward the window, where the rain was turning into slush against the glass. “Because when you divorced me, you told me I was a liability. You said you needed a wife who understood the cost of your name, not someone who cried every time a car backfired down the street. How could I bring a child into that, Roman? How could I give you a baby when you looked at me like I was a mistake?”

Roman closed his eyes. Every word she spoke was a nail driven into his skull. He remembered saying those exact words to her in the dining room six months ago—he had rehearsed them with Vance for two days beforehand, making sure they were cruel enough, sharp enough to drive her away from him quickly, before the New York hit men could find her.

He had meant to break her heart so he could save her life.

He had broken her heart, and almost killed her instead.

“Claire,” Roman said, standing up slowly and walking to the edge of the mattress. He didn't touch her, sensing her tension, but he leaned down until his face was level with hers. “Listen to me carefully. I am going to fix this. Every lie you were told, every dollar that was taken from you, every night you spent hungry... I am going to account for it.”