Chapter 3 - The Inner Circle
The transition from grease-stained diner aprons to tailored silk blouses happened over the course of three dizzying days.
Mrs. Gable, the severe head housekeeper who had initially treated Harper like an intrusive insect, now hovered over her with a mixture of apprehension and reluctant respect. Word had traveled through the estate’s clandestine grapevine: The new girl broke the boss’s nose, and instead of feeding her to the harbor fish, he gave her the master wing’s secondary study.
Harper sat behind a massive mahogany desk reviewing ledger entries for Russo Logistics, the shipping empire that served as the legal facade for Roman’s underground operations. Her fingers flew across the keyboard of a secure terminal, tracing millions of dollars in container freight moving between Baltimore, Rotterdam, and Naples.
The door swung open without a knock.
Noah, Roman’s primary underboss and enforcer—a man with shoulders like a draft horse and a jagged scar running through his left eyebrow—stepped into the office carrying a thick stack of invoices.
“Boss wants these cross-referenced with the port authority logs before noon,” Noah said, dropping the file onto her desk with a heavy thud. He paused, studying her with critical, hardened eyes. “You’re holding up, kid?”
“I told you before, Noah, I’m not a kid,” Harper replied without looking up from her screen, her eyes scanning a column of numbers. “And these logs are already cross-referenced. The discrepancy in container four-zero-two is a customs delay, not a diversion.”
Noah let out a low, gravelly whistle. “Fast. The boss didn’t lie when he said you had a head for numbers.”
Harper finally stopped typing and leaned back in her leather chair, crossing her arms. “Where is he?”
“Down in the cellar dealing with an issue,” Noah said vaguely, though the dark glint in his eyes spoke volumes. “Some guys from the North Baltimore crew tried to skim off a shipment of medical supplies. Dom is... reallocating their priorities.”
A cold shiver ran down Harper’s spine, but she kept her face impassive. She had lived in Roman’s world long enough now to understand the grim machinery that kept the empire functioning. Violence was the currency; power was the only law.
Yet, when she thought of Roman—of the way his gray eyes softened just a fraction when he looked at her across the dinner table each evening—she felt a dangerous, magnetic pull that terrified her more than any gun barrel.
“Tell him the logs are clean,” Harper said quietly.
Noah nodded, turning toward the door, but stopped before exiting. “Oh, and Harper? Dom’s hosting a dinner tonight with the city council delegates in the formal dining hall. He wants you there. By his side.”
“By his side as what? His hostage?”
May you like
“As his equal,” Noah said, his tone deadpan. “Wear the emerald green dress Mrs. Gable left in your wardrobe. It matches your eyes.”
Before Harper could retort, Noah slipped out of the room, leaving her alone with the hum of the computer and the heavy weight of her new reality.
