Chapter 4 - The Shadows of the Crescent Syndicate
Downstairs in the private mahogany study on the ground floor of the Metairie estate, Trace Bowen stood by the cold fireplace, holding a thick red dossier in his gloved hands.
The heavy double doors opened, and Roman walked into the room. The soft, gentle warmth that had softened his features upstairs in the bedroom had completely vanished. He was once again the Sovereign of the Crescent Syndicate—cold, calculating, and radiating a lethal authority that made the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.
“How is she?” Trace asked, setting the red folder on the desk.
“Exhausted. Dehydrated. But Harrison is with her now,” Roman replied, walking over to the marble bar and pouring himself two fingers of neat bourbon. He swallowed the amber liquid in a single burn. “Give me the update on Preston’s network.”
Trace leaned against the heavy desk. “When we eliminated Preston two months ago, we assumed his secondary cell in Biloxi had scattered. But two hours ago, our surveillance team near the harbor picked up an encrypted radio signal originating from a warehouse in Gretna.”
Roman’s eyes turned to liquid ice. “Who?”
“Julian Vance,” Trace reported grimly. “Preston’s younger brother. He landed in Louisiana from Costa Rica late last night.”
Julian Vance was a ruthless, unstable lieutenant who had managed Preston’s money-laundering routes in the Caribbean. Unlike his calculated, corporate brother, Julian was a violent enforcer who relied on brute force and intimidation.
“Does Julian know Rebecca is back in the city?” Roman asked, his voice dropping into a register that presaged violence.
“He didn't know until an hour ago,” Trace admitted reluctantly. “One of our low-level informants at the Monroe Holdings lobby leaked a rumor that a pregnant woman carrying Preston’s old ledgers walked into the building this morning. Julian knows those ledgers contain the offshore account codes to the four million dollars we haven't recovered yet.”
Roman set his heavy glass down on the desk with a sharp CLINK. The crystal didn't shatter, but the sound echoed through the silent study like a gunshot.
“Julian thinks he can use Rebecca to get those codes?” Roman asked softly.
“Julian is desperate, Roman,” Trace warned. “He’s broke, his cartel contacts in Mexico are demanding their cut from the failed deal, and he knows you’re hunting him. He has nothing left to lose.”
Roman walked slowly over to the wall-to-wall window overlooking the manicured gardens. Rain was lashing against the glass in fierce, rhythmic waves.
“Increase the perimeter guards around this estate from twelve to twenty-four,” Roman ordered, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of an absolute decree. “Put tactical snipers on the roof. I want heavy surveillance teams posted on every approach road within three miles of Metairie.”
“And if Julian makes a move?” Trace asked, his hand flexing near his sidearm.
Roman turned around to face his security chief. His dark eyes were devoid of any human mercy, burning with a lethal, ancient fire.
“If Julian Vance takes a single step toward this house,” Roman whispered, “I won't just kill him, Trace. I will erase his entire family name from the Gulf Coast.”
Trace bowed his head with deep, absolute respect. “Understood, boss.”
The door to the study opened softly, and Dr. Harrison stepped inside, wiping his hands with a sterile wipe.
Roman’s posture instantly shifted, the lethal killer vanishing behind the anxious father. “How is she, Harrison? How is the baby?”
Dr. Harrison offered a broad, reassuring smile. “She is remarkable, Roman. The baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady—one hundred and forty-five beats per minute. The contractions she experienced earlier were indeed Braxton Hicks, brought on by exhaustion and dehydration.”
Roman let out a long, shuddering breath of relief, leaning against the desk. “Is she safe?”
“She needs absolute bed rest for the next three weeks,” Dr. Harrison stated clearly. “No stress, high protein intake, proper hydration, and plenty of sleep. If she stays calm, she will carry this child to term without any complications.”
“She won't lift a finger,” Roman swore quietly.
“Good,” Harrison nodded, picking up his medical bag. “She’s resting upstairs now. Mrs. Gable brought her soup. I suggest you go up and keep her company, Roman. You look like you need the rest just as much as she does.”
Roman nodded, walking out of the study and heading back up the grand staircase.
He opened the door to the master suite quietly.
The room was dimly lit by the warm glow of the fireplace. Rebecca was sitting up against the pillows, wearing one of Roman’s soft, oversized navy cotton shirts. A tray with an empty soup bowl sat on the nightstand beside her.
She looked up as he entered, her hazel eyes warm and inviting.
Roman walked over to his side of the bed, kicked off his leather shoes, unbuttoned his dark vest, and climbed onto the mattress beside her.
He pulled her carefully into his side, wrapping his long arm around her shoulders, letting her head rest against his chest.
Rebecca let out a long, contented sigh, placing her hand over his on her belly.
Below their palms, a strong, rhythmic movement pressed against the fabric of her shirt—a firm, energetic kick from their daughter.
Roman went completely rigid, his breath catching in his throat again.
“Did you feel that?” Rebecca whispered, a soft smile touching her lips.
“Jesus,” Roman breathed, his hand spreading wide across her rounded stomach, feeling the tiny life stirring beneath his palm. “She’s... she’s so strong.”
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“She takes after her father,” Rebecca murmured, closing her eyes as the deep, rhythmic beat of his heart lulled her toward sleep.
Roman kissed the top of her head, holding them both tight against his chest as the rain continued to fall over the quiet estate.
