Red lines and rivals

Roman's world wasn't built on love.

It was built on rules, territory, blood, and silence. He showed her only what he *wanted* her to see, but even that was enough to chill her to the bone.

Yet Amara didn't flinch.

Not when he walked her past armed guards. Not when coded screens blinked with information no civilian should ever read. And not even when a man she didn't know—older, sharper—looked her up and down like she was a crack in Roman's armor.

That man was *Enzo Viteri*—one of Roman's father's old friends. A name she'd read once in a headline beside words like "racketeering" and "survivor."

"She shouldn't be here," Enzo said coldly, arms crossed as he stood near the warehouse exit.

Roman didn't look away from Amara when he answered. "She's with me."

"You can't afford distractions."

"I don't recall asking your permission."

The tension between the men crackled, but Amara saw something else in Roman's stillness—restraint. The kind that comes just before a storm.

She touched his arm lightly. "Roman… let's go."

He exhaled slowly. "Yeah."

---

Back in the car, the silence between them wasn't awkward. It was heavy.

"You didn't have to defend me like that," Amara said, watching the city blur past the tinted windows.

"Yes, I did."

"He's one of your people. He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't need to."

Amara turned to face him. "So what *is* this now? What are we doing?"

Roman looked at her for a long moment. "We're doing something I've never done before."

"What's that?"

"Letting someone close."

---

Later that night, Roman invited her to his penthouse again. She didn't ask why. She went.

The moment the door closed behind her, something in him shifted.

He poured whiskey, sat beside her on the velvet couch, and didn't say a word for almost five full minutes. Just silence. The kind that either brought people closer or cracked them wide open.

"I never planned to be this person," he said finally.

She looked at him, unsure where he was going.

"I wasn't supposed to run the family. My older brother was. Matteo."

"What happened?"

"He got sloppy. Thought loyalty meant weakness. Thought money was everything."

"And you?"

"I thought power without control was suicide."

Amara swallowed. "Where is he now?"

Roman's jaw tensed. "Dead."

The word hit like a slap. Not because it was unexpected—but because of how *flat* he said it. No emotion. No sorrow.

"I had to choose," he said. "Him… or everything my father built."

"And you chose the legacy."

"I chose survival."

Amara didn't speak. What could she say to that?

"But sometimes," he added, turning to her, "I wonder if that choice made me more like my father than I wanted."

She reached for his hand without thinking. "Maybe it just made you human."

Roman looked down at her fingers laced with his, then back up at her face. "You really don't scare easy."

"Maybe I'm just scared of different things."

---

They didn't kiss that night.

They didn't need to.

Sometimes, the quiet says more than anything else.

But outside Roman's building, in the darkness across the street, a car idled quietly.

Inside it, a man watched them through a lens, his finger tapping the side of a phone.

He made the call.

"She's real. And he's letting her in."

A pause.

Then a voice on the other end: "Good. That means he's finally made a mistake."

---