Chapter 3 - The Price of Safety
Dr. Hayes turned out to be a meticulous, soft-spoken woman with silver-rimmed glasses and a black medical bag that smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean cotton.
For over an hour, she examined Sophia in the quiet warmth of the east wing suite. She taped two fractured ribs, cleaned and dressed the deep cut over Sophia's eyebrow, and administered a mild painkiller that immediately wrapped a heavy, warm fog around Sophia's racing thoughts.
"You're lucky," Dr. Hayes said quietly, snapping her bag shut. "Another day without medical attention for those ribs, and one could have punctured a lung. You need complete bed rest for at least a week. No heavy lifting, no stress, and plenty of calories."
"Easy to prescribe when you're not the one owing half the underworld," Sophia mumbled, drifting off against the pillows.
"Mr. Vale doesn't do things by halves," Dr. Hayes replied with a slight smile. "Rest, child. You're safe in this house."
When Sophia woke up hours later, the room was dark except for a single amber reading lamp casting a warm glow across the floor. A tray sat on the bedside table—steaming chicken soup, buttered toast, and a glass of water.
She sat up slowly, wincing as her ribs protested, and ate in silence. The food tasted better than anything she could remember.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, illuminating the magnificent view of the river below. Sophia felt marginally better, the painkiller having dulled the sharp edges of her injuries.
She pushed the blankets aside, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. Her balance was wobbly, but she managed. Opening the closet, she found her torn, dirt-stained jacket and jeans had been replaced. Hanging neatly inside were several soft wool sweaters, new jeans, and comfortable lounge clothes in her size.
He planned this, she thought, a strange mix of frustration and gratitude bubbling up in her chest. He knew I'd wake up here.
She changed into a dark gray sweater and black jeans, combed her tangled brown hair, and stepped out into the hallway.
The mansion was breathtakingly quiet. Downstairs, she followed the rich scent of roasted coffee beans toward the back of the house, finding a massive, modern kitchen that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant.
Thomas was standing by an espresso machine, while Roman sat at a marble island reading a stack of physical newspapers. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers, looking less like a mafia overlord and more like an executive on a quiet Sunday morning.
"Good morning, Miss Mercer," Thomas said politely, noticing her first. "I trust you slept well?"
Roman looked up from his paper. His dark eyes swept over her, noting the way she held her right arm slightly stiff to protect her ribs.
"You should be in bed," Roman said, though there was no anger in his voice.
"I've spent enough time lying down," Sophia replied, walking over to the island and gripping the edge of the marble for support. "Thank you for the doctor... and the clothes. And for not letting Victor's men finish me off."
"Sit down, Sofia," Roman said, gesturing to the stool beside him. "Thomas, pour her some tea."
She sat, accepting the hot ceramic mug gratefully.
"What happens now?" she asked, looking straight into his eyes. "You own the garage. You paid off Victor. You brought me to your fortress. Am I your prisoner now?"
Roman set his paper down slowly. He folded his hands on the counter, the thick, calloused knuckles catching the morning light.
"If I wanted a prisoner, Sofia, I would have locked you in a cell in Brooklyn," Roman said evenly. "You are a guest in my home. But you are not free to walk the streets of New York unattended right now. Victor's influence runs deep, and even though I neutralized his primary assets, desperate men do stupid things."
"And my brother?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly. "Have you found him?"
Roman's expression hardened.
"My men located Eric twelve hours ago," Roman said.
Sophia leaned forward, ignoring the pain in her ribs. "Where is he? Is he okay?"
"He is in Atlantic City," Roman said flatly. "Sitting at a blackjack table in a casino, trying to win back money he lost on sports bets, using a fake ID and a credit line opened under a dead man's name."
The blood drained from Sophia's face. The fragile hope she had harbored—that her brother was in trouble, that he was running for his life, that he loved her and missed her—shattered completely.
"He's... gambling?" she whispered, her voice hollow.
"He was gambling while you were lying on a concrete floor in Queens with cracked ribs," Roman corrected mercilessly. "He knew Victor's men were looking for him. He knew they would come for you. He didn't care. He left you behind as a human shield."
Sophia stared down at her tea. The hot liquid blurred as tears welled in her eyes. She didn't cry. She had cried herself dry two nights ago. Instead, a cold, hard numbness settled deep into her bones.
"Bring him here," she said quietly.
Roman raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Bring Eric here," she repeated, looking up, her eyes burning with a sudden, fierce intensity. "You own him now, right? His debt is yours. His life is yours. Bring him to this house."
May you like
Roman studied her for a long moment, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his stoic face. "What do you intend to do with him?"
"I want to show him what I looked like when I walked into your conference room," Sophia said, her voice steady and chillingly calm. "And then I want to watch you do whatever you want with him. Because I am done cleaning up his messes."
