She Returned His Ledgers Eight Months Later, and the Man Who Ruled New Orleans Forgot How to Breathe

Three days passed in quiet, luxurious tranquility inside the Metairie mansion.

For Rebecca, it felt like waking up in a completely different reality. She was not permitted to leave the master suite except to walk through the private sunlit conservatory on the second floor. Mrs. Gable brought her gourmet meals every three hours, Dr. Harrison checked her vitals daily, and Roman spent every available moment by her side.

He brought his corporate paperwork upstairs, sitting in the leather armchair near the fireplace, conducting business quietly on his encrypted tablet so he could remain in the same room with her.

For the first time in six years, Rebecca saw the man behind the syndicate boss—a man who brought her warm chamomile tea at midnight, who read historic biographies aloud to her belly so their daughter would learn the sound of his voice, and who held her through the occasional night terrors when she woke up gasping, dreaming that Preston’s men were breaking down her apartment door.

However, outside the stone walls of the estate, the Crescent Syndicate was at war.

On Friday afternoon, while Rebecca was napping peacefully in the master bedroom, Roman sat in his basement war room beneath the estate, surrounded by high-definition monitors and glowing tactical maps.

Trace dropped a thick blue folder onto the steel table.

“Julian Vance made his move an hour ago,” Trace reported, his voice low and tense. “He tried to hijack one of our commercial supply trucks coming out of the Gretna shipping yard.”

Roman didn't look up from his tactical screen. “Did he succeed?”

“No,” Trace smiled grimly. “Our tactical team was waiting for him. We captured four of his primary enforcers. Julian escaped in a speedboat across the river, but he’s pinned down in an abandoned industrial grain silo near Chalmette.”

Roman stood up slowly from his chair. His face was devoid of emotion, his posture cold and rigid.

“Is the Chalmette location secured?” Roman asked.

“We have twenty men surrounding the perimeter,” Trace confirmed. “He has nowhere left to run.”

Roman reached into his wall safe, pulling out his personal sidearm—a sleek, black customized Kimber .45 pistol. He checked the magazine with a practiced, metallic CLACK and holstered it beneath his jacket.

“You’re going yourself, boss?” Trace asked with a slight frown. “We can handle Julian.”

“Julian Vance targeted the mother of my child,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying finality. “He spent four months letting me believe Rebecca was dead so he could steal my secondary reserves. This isn't syndicate business, Trace. This is personal.”

Roman turned to leave the room, then paused, looking at his security chief.

“Does Rebecca suspect anything?”