Roman went completely still. That was the one thing no monitor had ever told him.
And just when he thought he understood what the little girl meant, Sophie suddenly pointed toward the driveway.
“That’s why I knew something was wrong today.”
Roman followed her finger. The silver car sat behind the garden wall. The windows were dark.
And from inside came the faintest sound.
A baby crying.
But the papers on Roman’s desk that afternoon told a darker story.
Charles Vane tapped the document between them. “She’s thirty-two, Roman. Evelyn’s petition isn’t just a threat. It’s a formal filing with the Charleston County Family Court.”
Evelyn Whitmore — Claire’s sister. She had three character affidavits from Claire’s family, statements from former household staff about Roman’s emotional distance, and a preliminary report from the Guardian Ad Litem.
In Re: The Guardianship of Nicholas Bellini, a minor. Petitioner: Evelyn Whitmore. Grounds: unsafe domestic environment, severe parental emotional detachment, history of criminal association.
“She won’t get him,” Roman said, his voice low and flat.
“She doesn’t need to win full custody today,” Vane countered. “She only needs the judge to sign a temporary emergency removal order. With the Whitmore name on the stationery and your name linked to three ongoing federal grand jury inquiries? A judge will sign that order in twenty minutes.”
Rachel stood near the door, her heart hammering. She knew what it was like to have someone in a dark suit tell you your child would be taken away. Four years earlier, during her divorce, her ex-husband’s lawyer had used her empty bank account to argue she couldn’t provide a stable home. She had fought seven months to keep Sophie.
She looked at Roman Bellini — a man whose name made police look the other way — and realized something terrifying: he was just as helpless as she had been.
“Mr. Bellini,” Rachel said before she could stop herself.
Both men turned. Vane looked annoyed, as if the wallpaper had spoken.
“Mrs. Whitmore… she isn’t in the garden,” Rachel said, her voice trembling, then finding its footing. “I was on the second floor ten minutes ago. Mrs. Whitmore’s driver brought her car around to the east courtyard near the old laundry wall. She put two leather bags in the trunk.”
Roman’s posture changed instantly.
“Which car?”
“The silver Bentley. She told the driver she was taking Nico for a ride to get him out of the house while you were in your meeting. But she didn’t use the child seat from the nursery. She brought her own from her car.”
Vane stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. “Roman, if she takes the child off the property before the judge signs—”
“She’s not taking him anywhere.”
Roman stepped around the desk, his stride long and silent. As he passed Rachel, he stopped for a fraction of a second.
“Stay with your daughter,” he said flatly.
Then he was gone, footsteps echoing down the marble corridor toward the east wing.
The asphalt near the east laundry wall was one hundred and four degrees.
The silver Bentley sat in the narrow shade of a giant live oak, engine off, dark-tinted windows rolled up tight.
Evelyn Whitmore stood by the rear passenger door in a pristine bone-colored linen suit, her silver-blonde hair pulled into a tight knot. Beside her, her driver struggled with an expensive infant carrier on the back seat.
“Hurry up, Thomas,” Evelyn said sharply. “We need to be past the main gate before Charles Vane finishes his presentation.”
“The belt mechanism is jammed, Mrs. Whitmore. It’s an aftermarket lock—”
“Then don’t lock it! Just slide the harness over the frame. We are driving four miles. He isn’t going to fly out of the seat.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Evelyn.”
The voice came from the shade beneath the oak tree.
Evelyn froze. Her driver reached toward his hip, then stopped when he saw who was walking out from behind the brick wall.
Roman wasn’t running. He was walking with a slow, deliberate cadence far more terrifying than a sprint. Behind him, Marco and Lev — the estate’s primary security — positioned themselves between the Bentley and the driveway.
“Roman,” Evelyn said, recovering her poise within seconds, stepping between him and the open car door. “You’re late for your meeting. Charles said you had contracts to review.”
Roman didn’t look at her face. He looked past her shoulder, through the open rear door.
Inside, on the dark leather seat, six-month-old Nicholas lay on his back. His face was bright red, his forehead slick with sweat, his tiny hands opening and closing in the airless heat. He wasn’t crying out loud anymore — just short, wet gasps.
“Take him out,” Roman said.
“He’s perfectly comfortable, Roman. I’m taking him to my house for the afternoon—”
“Take him out, Evelyn.”
She didn’t move. “He is my sister’s child! Claire died because of your games! Because your men blocked the driveway! Because you were so afraid of the police seeing who was inside your house that you let her lie on the floor bleeding for twenty minutes! I won’t let you kill her son too!”
Roman stopped three feet from her. Claire’s name hit him like a physical blow, but his face didn’t move.
“If you don’t step away from that door in three seconds, Evelyn,” he said softly, “I will have Marco put you in the back of your driver’s car and lock the gate from the outside.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Roman didn’t answer. He placed his large hand against her shoulder and moved her aside — three feet onto the gravel, as if she were made of dry straw.
He leaned into the back seat. The heat hit his face like an open oven door.