Chapter 3 - The Price of LoyaltyBy nine o'clock that evening, the penthouse had grown quiet. Marcus had finished taping Sophia's ribs with professional precision, administering a mild anti-inflammatory and prescribing forty-eight hours of absolute immobility. He had left quietly via the service elevator, leaving Sophia wrapped in cashmere on the expansive sofa, staring into the flickering flames of the gas fireplace.
The pain in her chest had dulled to a manageable ache, but her mind was racing.
On the coffee table sat the manila envelope containing the deed to Mercer Auto Repair. Inside her coat pocket, which hung neatly over the back of an adjacent armchair, were her car keys, her broken phone, and eleven dollars in crumpled bills. She was in the penthouse of a man who commanded billions in technology and logistics, surrounded by glass, steel, and a terrifying aura of absolute power.
Footsteps echoed softly across the concrete floor.
Roman walked in carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of beef and rice porridge, a glass of water, and a small loaf of fresh bread. He set it on the low table in front of her.
"Marcus said you need to eat something with substance before taking the next dose of pain relief," Roman said, sitting down in an armchair opposite the sofa, stretching his long legs out.
Sophia looked at the food, her stomach giving a traitorous rumble. She hadn't eaten a proper meal since Tuesday morning. She picked up the spoon, her hand shaking slightly, and took a small bite. The rich, savory broth and tender beef instantly warmed her chest.
"Thank you," she murmured, keeping her eyes down.
"Don't thank me yet," Roman said dryly. "Your brother called."
Sophia froze, the spoon halfway to her mouth. Her heart slammed against her newly taped ribs, sending a sharp twinge of pain through her side. "Eric? Where is he? Is he okay?"
"He's in Atlantic City," Roman said flatly. "Sitting in a motel room off the expressway, drinking cheap whiskey, and wondering why his phone isn't ringing with death threats from Victor's enforcers anymore."
Sophia let out a shaky breath, setting the spoon down with a clatter. "I need to go find him. I need to get him back."
"You aren't going anywhere for a week, Sophia. Your ribs are fractured in two places, and your left cheek looks like you walked into the business end of a crowbar," Roman said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute finality. "Besides, if you go to Atlantic City right now, you'll just end up bailing him out of another mess before he's even finished apologizing for the last one."
"He's my brother," she shot back, a flash of her old fire breaking through the exhaustion. "He's all I have left."
"And that loyalty is the exact reason he keeps dragging you down," Roman countered, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His slate-gray eyes locked onto hers with piercing intensity. "Eric knows you'll always clean up his wreckage. He knows you'll pawn your mother's earrings, drain your savings, and walk into a den of loan sharks with eleven dollars in your pocket just to keep him from getting his legs broken."
Sophia flinched. The words stung because they were entirely, brutally true.
"What do you care?" she whispered, her voice tightening. "Why are you even involved in this? You paid off the debt, you gave me back the shop—just let me go home."
"This is home for the next few days, whether you like it or not," Roman said calmly. "And as for why I'm involved... let's just say I have a vested interest in keeping the people who own Mercer Auto Repair alive."
Before Sophia could demand an explanation, the secure intercom on the wall near the kitchen beeped softly.
Roman stood up, walked over, and pressed the receiver. "Speak."
"Mr. Vale," Marcus's voice came through the speaker, crisp and urgent. "We have a situation down at the lower freight yard in Brooklyn. One of the perimeter sensors tripped on Gate 4. Looks like someone tried to force the lock on a container registered to the Mercer account."
Roman’s expression didn't change, but the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Whose men?" Roman asked.
"Not Victor's," Marcus replied. "Too clean. Professional cuts. Looks like corporate interference from the Higgins Group."
Roman released the intercom button and turned slowly to look at Sophia.
May you like
The name hung in the air between them like a ghost. Higgins Group. The massive multinational real estate conglomerate that had been trying to buy up the entire industrial block surrounding Mercer Auto Repair for two years—an acquisition that Frank Mercer had stubbornly refused to sign off on before he died.
"They aren't just after your brother's debts, Sophia," Roman said quietly, walking back toward her. "They're after your land."
