POV: Lily Ashford
The next morning, everything feels different.
I wake to find Dante already gone, a note on my pillow written in his sharp handwriting: Had to handle business. Tonight. Don't leave your room.
There's no tenderness in it. Just commands. But underneath the control, I can read the fear. He's terrified that last night changed something between us. That I'll run or realize what I've done.
I won't run.
But I also can't spend the entire day alone with these feelings.
I'm pacing my suite, trying to distract myself with a book, when Sofia brings lunch.
"You have a new security detail for the evenings," she says casually, setting down the tray. "Since Roman was injured protecting you, Mr. Morelli felt you should have someone equally capable."
"But Roman—"
"Is recovering fine. Shot through the shoulder. He'll be back to full capacity in a few weeks." Sofia smiles knowingly. "The new guard's name is also Roman. Coincidence, apparently. But don't worry—this one is quite different."
I don't ask what she means.
At 6 PM, I find out.
My door opens, and a man fills the frame. Not as tall as Dante, but bigger. Broader. Massive in a way that suggests he could bend steel with his bare hands. His arms are covered in tattoos—dark, intricate designs that look like they were done in prison. His face is scarred, his expression blank.
He looks like the kind of man who's broken people for money.
"I'm Roman," he says. His voice is surprisingly gentle. "I'll be your evening security until the other Roman recovers."
I don't respond immediately. Just study him, trying to reconcile the brutal appearance with the soft tone.
"You're afraid," he observes. It's not criticism. Just fact.
"A little," I admit.
"I won't hurt you," he says. It's delivered simply, like a promise he takes seriously. "That's not my job."
He moves to a chair in the corner of my room and sits, making himself smaller than his size allows. Like he's trying not to be threatening.
"You can ignore me," he continues. "Read, sleep, whatever. I'm just here to make sure nothing gets to you."
So I ignore him.
I try to focus on my book, but I'm hyperaware of him. Of his massive presence in the corner. Of the way his eyes move across the room constantly, cataloging, assessing, protecting.
After an hour of silence, he speaks.
"The book any good?"
I look up, surprised. "What?"
"The book," Roman repeats. "Is it any good? You've been reading the same page for twenty minutes."
"How can you tell?"
"Training," he says. "You learn to notice things. Body language. Patterns. Whether someone's actually engaged or just pretending."
"Are you trained in psychology?" I ask.
"No. In survival." He shifts his massive frame slightly. "I'm Russian. Bratva. Before I came here, my job was to notice when people were lying. When they were planning something. When they were about to die."
I close my book. "That's a depressing skill set."
"Yes," he agrees. "But it kept me alive. And it keeps people like you alive now."
We lapse back into silence. But this time, it's less uncomfortable.
The next evening, Roman comes again. And the next. And by the fourth evening, we're actually talking.
"Tell me about Russia," I ask as he sits in his corner chair.
Roman considers this like I've asked him to reveal state secrets. Then he begins.
"I grew up in Moscow. Rough part. My father was Bratva. So was I, eventually. You don't choose that life—you inherit it."
"Did you want something different?"
"Yes," Roman says simply. "I wanted normal. A family. A woman I loved. A life where I didn't have to hurt people."
"What happened?"
"I got the woman I loved," Roman says, and his voice changes. Becomes heavier. "Her name was Katya. She was beautiful and kind and completely out of place in my world. But somehow, she loved me anyway."
I wait. The end of this story is written on his face.
"My boss ordered me to kill an innocent family," Roman continues. "Send a message to rivals. I refused. So he killed Katya in front of me as punishment. Then he told me to choose: complete the original hit or die."
"Oh God," I whisper.
"I completed the hit," Roman says. No shame in his voice. Just acceptance. "I'm not a hero, Lily. I chose my life over my principles. And I've been living with that ever since."
"How long ago?"
"Five years. I ran to America. Mr. Morelli found me during my revenge phase. Took out everyone involved in Katya's death. He saw potential, gave me a job, and I've been loyal since."
I stand and move closer to him. "I'm sorry, Roman. That's—"
"Don't pity me." It's not harsh. Just honest. "I don't deserve pity. I made my choices."
"You were forced to choose. That's different."
Roman looks at me like I've said something revolutionary. Like no one's ever absolved him before.
On the seventh evening, I have a nightmare.
I'm back in my destroyed apartment. Blood is on the walls. Vincent is there, but so are my parents. They're laughing about selling me. Laughing like it's the funniest thing they've ever done.
I wake up screaming.
Before I can fully register what's happening, Roman is in my room. Gun drawn. Eyes scanning for threats.
"What's wrong?" he demands. "Who's here?"
"Nightmare," I gasp. "Just a nightmare."
Roman holsters his gun immediately. The warrior becomes someone different. Someone unsure.
"I'll go," he says.
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it. "Please don't go."
He hesitates. Clearly torn between protocol and humanity.
"Just... sit with me?" I ask. "For a minute?"
He does something awkward then. He moves to the edge of my bed and sits, maintaining distance like I might break if he gets too close.
I'm still shaking. Still breathing hard. The nightmare is fading but leaving emotional wreckage behind.
Without thinking, I move closer to him. My shoulder touches his side.
"Tell me about Katya," I say. "Tell me something good."
Roman is quiet for a long time. Then: "She sang off-key. Terribly. But she sang everywhere—in the kitchen, in the bathroom, walking down the street. Like the world was a stage and she was the only performer."
"That sounds nice."
"She liked terrible action movies. The kind that make no sense. She'd laugh at the worst parts. I'd pretend to be annoyed, but I loved watching her laugh more than I cared about the movie."
"She sounds like she was worth everything," I say.
"She was." Roman's voice is rough. "And I failed her."
"You survived. That's not failure."
He looks down at me. Really looks at me. "Why are you so kind? After everything you've been through, why are you kind?"
"Because someone has to be," I say. "Because kindness is the only thing I have left. Because maybe it's enough."
I'm crying without realizing it. Tears just pouring down my face. Everything from the past week—my parents' betrayal, Dante's possession, the battle, the kiss—it's all coming out now.
Roman makes a sound like he's in pain. Then his massive arm wraps around me, pulling me against his side. His other hand comes up to my hair, holding me like I'm precious.
"Don't cry," he whispers. "You're safe. I've got you."
And for the first time since my apartment was destroyed, I actually believe it.
I cry into Roman's shoulder while he holds me. He doesn't try to fix anything. Doesn't offer false comfort. Just lets me break apart while he bears the weight.
When I finally stop, I'm exhausted and empty.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"For listening. For staying. For treating me like a person instead of a prisoner."
Roman's jaw tightens. "Mr. Morelli treats you well?"
"Yes. He's... different with me. Softer."
"Good." Roman sounds like he means it. "You deserve soft. You deserve good."
The way he says it—like he's giving me permission to be happy—makes something twist in my chest.
"Roman—"
"I should go," he says quickly, standing. "You need sleep. I'll be outside your door."
He moves to leave, but I catch his hand. "Wait. Will you come back tomorrow?"
He looks at our joined hands like they might burn him. "Yes. But only to guard you. You understand?"
"I understand."
But as I watch him leave, I realize something's happened. Something Dante won't like.
Roman is falling for me.
And worse—I'm starting to fall for him too.
Not like I'm falling for Dante. This is different. This is gentler. This is someone seeing my pain and choosing to share it instead of exploit it.
This is dangerous in a completely different way.
The next morning, Sofia finds me in the library.
"Mr. Morelli will be home tonight," she says. "He's in an interesting mood."
"What kind of interesting?"
"The kind where he's asking about Roman's schedule," Sofia says carefully. "The kind where he's wondering why you'd need an evening guard if you're spending most of your time alone in your suite."
My stomach drops.
"He doesn't trust easily," Sofia continues. "He trusts Roman. But he won't trust Roman with you if he thinks there's anything else happening."
"Nothing's happening," I say. "Roman just listened to me. He was kind."
"I know, dear." Sofia sits beside me. "But Mr. Morelli has spent his entire life believing that attachment is weakness. He's only just learning to attach to you. And now he has to watch another man comfort you?"
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Decide who you want," Sofia says simply. "Because pretending won't work. Mr. Morelli reads people too well. He'll see it eventually."
That evening, Dante returns.
He's all business when he enters the library where I'm waiting. Dangerous. Controlled. The crime lord fully activated.
"Tell me about Roman," he says without preamble.
My heart races. "What do you want to know?"
"Is he appropriate for your security detail?"
It's a test. I can feel it. One wrong answer and Roman gets reassigned.
"He's professional," I say carefully. "He keeps me safe."
"That's not what I asked."
Dante steps closer. His eyes are searching mine for lies. For betrayal.
"Is he inappropriate?" I ask quietly. "Is he overstepping?"
"No," Dante says. "But he's falling for you. I can see it. And I need to know if you're falling for him too."
I can't lie. Not to him. Not after last night.
"I don't know," I whisper. "He's kind, Dante. He listens to me. He doesn't make me feel like a possession."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
Dante's expression goes absolutely blank.
"I see," he says quietly.
And in those two words, I hear everything he won't say. The fear. The anger. The realization that he's losing me.
"Dante, I—"
"You should choose Roman," he says. "He's a better man than I am. He can give you things I can't."
"That's not what I want."
"It doesn't matter what you want," Dante says. "You're leaving tomorrow. I'm arranging new identity documents. Money. Everything you need to disappear."
"No." I stand. "I don't want to leave."
"You said he doesn't make you feel like a possession," Dante says coldly. "So I'm giving you what you wanted. Freedom."
He turns to walk away.
"Dante, wait!"
But he's already gone.
And I realize I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.