Chapter 6 - The Strategy of the Dinner Table
At 7:00 p.m. on Tuesday evening, the dining room of the Foxhall Crescent estate was lit by eight beeswax candles set in heavy silver candelabras.
The dining table was twenty feet long, carved from a single slab of Italian walnut, and set with bone china, silver cutlery, and crystal glasses.
Roman sat at the head of the table in a dark navy tailored vest and dark trousers, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal his thick wrists and the dark, intricate ink of an old syndicate tattoo wrapping around his right forearm.
To his right sat his legal counsel, Arthur Vance—a sixty-year-old man with silver hair, sharp gold-rimmed spectacles, and a sixty-thousand-dollar watch that clicked rhythmically against his water glass.
To Roman’s left sat Josephine.
She was wearing a long-sleeved, high-necked dress of deep forest green silk that draped over her heavy hips and chest in long, smooth folds. Her auburn hair was pinned up with silver combs, exposing the long line of her neck and the small, dark bruise on her shoulder that was finally fading to a pale yellow.
Oliver and Finn were sitting at the far end of the table, quietly eating their roast chicken and roasted vegetables under the watchful eye of a junior housemaid.
"The situation in Baltimore is stable, Roman," Vance said, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. "Viktor’s departure left a vacuum in the port security union, but your brother Gabriel moved three crews in from Philadelphia yesterday morning. The docks are operating at eighty percent capacity."
"And the grand jury?" Roman asked, cutting a piece of steak with surgical precision.
"Suppressed," Vance said smoothly. "The Assistant District Attorney received a very convincing letter regarding his daughter’s tuition payments at Princeton. He won't be issuing subpoenas this quarter."
Vance set his fork down and turned his head to look at Josephine. He had been casting subtle, curious glances at her throughout the forty-minute dinner—noting her presence at the main family table, her silent, composed demeanor, and the way Roman’s eyes drifted to her every three minutes.
"Miss Caldwell," Vance said, his tone carrying the polite, condescending warmth of a high-priced attorney addressing domestic staff. "Roman tells me you showed remarkable presence of mind during the incident last week."
Josephine set her water glass down without making a sound on the tablecloth. "I reacted according to basic physics, Mr. Vance."
Vance chuckled—a dry, thin sound. "Physics. Quite. Though I must admit, when Roman told me he was doubling your retainer to thirty thousand a month, I was somewhat surprised. That is... an unprecedented figure for childcare, even in Washington."
Roman’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. His blue eyes went instantly cold as he looked at his attorney across the silver candelabra.
"Arthur," Roman said, his voice dropping three notes.
"No, Roman, it’s a fair observation," Josephine said smoothly, her voice cutting through the rising tension before it could harden into violence. She looked directly at Vance through the candlelight, her grey eyes steady and unblinking. "Thirty thousand dollars a month sounds expensive to a man who calculates value in billable hours, Mr. Vance."
Vance’s smile faltered slightly. "I merely meant—"
"You calculate the cost of a nanny against the cost of a kidnapping," Josephine said, her voice quiet, measured, and terrifyingly clear. "If Viktor Tierney’s men had taken Oliver and Finn, how much would Roman have paid in ransom to get them back? Five million? Ten?"
Vance blinked behind his gold-rimmed glasses. "Well... obviously—"
"And if one of those boys had been injured during the snatch—if Oliver’s arm had been broken, or if Finn had suffered a traumatic head injury on the radiator—what would the legal and medical costs have been? What would the impact have been on Roman’s ability to manage the Baltimore operations while dealing with a grief-stricken household?"
She picked up her linen napkin and touched it to the corner of her lips with exquisite grace.
"Thirty thousand dollars a month is three hundred and sixty thousand dollars a year, Mr. Vance," she continued, her gaze locked onto the lawyer’s face like a target scope. "That is approximately seven percent of what Roman spent on his security detail last year—a detail that failed to prevent three men from entering the second-floor playroom. I would suggest that my services represent the most efficient line item on the Tierney family balance sheet."
Silence fell over the long walnut table.
At the far end, nine-year-old Oliver looked up from his chicken, caught his father’s eye, and gave a tiny, silent thumbs-up beneath the edge of the table.
Arthur Vance sat frozen for three seconds. He looked at Josephine’s deep green silk dress, looked at the immense, calm authority in her shoulders, and then looked at Roman.
Roman was sitting back in his chair, his hands resting on the carved wooden armrests, his lips curved into a full, open smile—a smile so rare that Vance hadn't seen it since 2017.
"She’s right, Arthur," Roman said softly. "You're fired."
Vance’s head snapped toward Roman. "What? Roman, I’ve handled your legal affairs for twelve years!"
"And you just questioned the value of the woman who saved my sons' lives while sitting at my dinner table," Roman said, his voice dropping into that dark, iron tone that admitted no appeal. "Pack your files. Leave your keycard with Marko on your way out. My office will wire your retainer through the end of the month."
Vance stared at Roman, then at Josephine, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. He stood up, adjusted his sixty-thousand-dollar watch, and walked out of the dining room without saying another word.
When the heavy oak door closed behind him, Josephine turned her head to look at Roman.
"That was unnecessary, Roman," she said quietly. "He was merely being a lawyer."
"He was being stupid," Roman said. He reached across the corner of the table, his heavy, scarred hand wrapping around hers—her palm warm, broad, and solid under his fingers. "And I don't pay stupid men to represent my family."
"I am not your family, Roman," she whispered, though she did not pull her hand away from his. "I am your employee."
Roman leaned forward across the candelabra, the amber candlelight reflecting in his pale blue eyes.
"You dropped a two-hundred-pound mercenary on my rug, Josephine," he murmured. "You taught my sons to break a wrist grip. You sit at my table in green silk and make my lawyers look like fools."
He squeezed her hand—hard enough to feel the dense bone and muscle beneath her soft skin.
"You are whatever I want you to be in this house," he said. "And starting tonight, you don't sleep in the nanny quarters on the third floor."
May you like
Josephine’s eyes widened slightly. "Roman..."
"The master suite has a adjoining nursery," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register that made the candle flames flicker. "And the door between them stays open."
