Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~11 min read
The abandoned Apex building smelled like rot and decay.
Juliette slipped through a broken side door, her phone flashlight cutting through the darkness. The interior was gutted—exposed beams, shattered glass crunching under her feet, graffiti covering every surface. This had been a nightclub once, full of music and lights and life. Now it was a tomb.
Voices echoed from somewhere above. She followed them carefully, climbing a staircase that groaned under her weight, praying it wouldn’t collapse.
The voices grew louder. Roman’s, low and controlled. And another—older, rough with cigarettes and cruelty.
“—don’t care about your evidence, boy. You think you’re the first person to threaten me with information? I’ve buried smarter men than you.”
“Then you know I’m not bluffing.” Roman’s voice was steady, but Juliette could hear the tension underneath. “One phone call and the FBI has everything. Every bribe, every murder, every illegal deal you’ve made since 1998. You’ll die in prison, Nico.”
A low chuckle. “Assuming you live long enough to make that call.”
Juliette reached the second floor, peering around a corner. The space opened into what had been the main club—a vast room with a collapsed dance floor, broken DJ booth, and shattered mirrors reflecting fractured light from the street outside.
Roman stood in the center, alone, hands loose at his sides. Facing him was an older man in an expensive suit—silver-haired, cruel-eyed, everything about him radiating controlled violence. Nico Vitelli.
And behind Nico, three men with guns.
Juliette’s blood turned to ice.
“Let’s be reasonable,” Nico continued, circling Roman like a predator. “You give me the drive. All the copies. Every piece of evidence. And I let you walk out of here. You disappear—new city, new name. I never hear from you again. Your pretty little wife gets to keep breathing.”
“Not good enough.” Roman didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “You’ve come after me twice already. Framed me, stole eight years of my life. What guarantee do I have you won’t do it again?”
“My word.”
“Your word’s worth shit.”
Nico’s expression hardened. “Then we have a problem.”
“Yeah. We do.” Roman pulled out the USB drive, held it up. “Here’s how this works. This drive stays with my lawyer. If anything happens to me or Juliette—anything at all, even an accident that looks natural—it goes to the FBI within twenty-four hours. You leave us alone, we leave you alone. Mutually assured destruction.”
“You think I’m afraid of prison? I’m seventy-three years old. What are they going to do, give me life? I’ll be dead in five years anyway.” Nico smiled, cold and reptilian. “But you? You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And that beautiful wife—what did the news say her name was? Juliette? Pretty girl. Be a shame if something happened to her.”
Roman moved so fast Juliette almost missed it. One second he was standing still, the next he had Nico by the throat, the USB drive pressed against his temple like a gun.
“Say her name again,” Roman said quietly, dangerously. “I dare you.”
The three men raised their weapons, but Nico held up a hand, stopping them.
“Easy, boy. No need for—”
“You don’t get to threaten her.” Roman’s voice was barely human, all cold fury and barely leashed violence. “You don’t get to say her name, think about her, look in her direction. She’s off-limits. Completely. That was the deal.”
“There is no deal until you give me that drive.”
“Then I guess we’re done here.” Roman shoved Nico away, pocketing the drive. “Shoot me if you want. The evidence still gets released. You still go down. Only difference is you add another murder to the list.”
Nico studied him for a long moment. Then he laughed—a sound like grinding gravel.
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Your father would be proud.” He straightened his suit. “Fine. Stalemate. You keep your evidence, I keep my freedom. But Roman?” His expression went deadly. “This doesn’t end. Not really. You’re a loose end. And I don’t like loose ends.”
“Then I guess we’ll both be looking over our shoulders.”
“I guess we will.”
Nico turned to leave, his men falling in behind him. They were almost to the stairs when one of them—young, twitchy, eager to prove himself—turned back.
“Boss, we can’t just let him—”
“Let it go, Kade,” Nico said tiredly.
But Kade didn’t let it go. His hand went to his gun.
“No!” Juliette burst from her hiding place before she could think. “Don’t!”
Everything happened at once.
Kade spun toward her, weapon rising. Roman roared her name and launched himself between them. The gun fired, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
Roman went down.
“No!” Juliette screamed, running to him. “Roman!”
Nico backhanded Kade so hard the younger man’s head snapped back. “You stupid cazzο! I said let it go!”
But Juliette barely heard. She was on the floor, Roman’s head in her lap, her hands pressing against the wound in his shoulder. Blood poured between her fingers, hot and slick.
“You’re okay,” she babbled. “You’re okay, you’re going to be fine—”
“Juliette.” Roman’s voice was strained with pain. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Saving you, apparently.”
“I told you to stay home.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t follow orders.” Tears streamed down her face. “You’re bleeding. Oh God, you’re bleeding so much—”
“Shoulder wound. I’ll live.” He tried to sit up and hissed in pain. “But we need to move. Now.”
Nico was shouting at his men, Kade getting dragged away, everything descending into chaos. Juliette helped Roman to his feet, his weight heavy against her, blood soaking into her jacket.
“Can you walk?”
“Have to.” He stumbled, and she caught him, wrapping his good arm over her shoulders. “Juliette, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
“Shut up and walk.”
They made it to the stairs, down one agonizing step at a time. Behind them, Nico’s voice echoed.
“Let them go! This is done! Kade, you’re finished—done—get out of my sight!”
They reached the ground floor. The side door. Outside into the cold night air. Juliette’s car was a block away but it felt like miles.
Roman’s breathing was labored, his skin pale in the streetlight. “Leave me. Get yourself safe.”
“Not a chance.” She adjusted her grip, half-dragging him. “We’re doing this together, remember?”
“Stubborn woman.”
“You married me.”
“Best decision I ever made.” He coughed, and she saw blood on his lips. That wasn’t good. That was very not good.
They made it to the car. Juliette shoved Roman into the passenger seat, hands shaking so badly she could barely grip the keys. She peeled out, heading for—where? The hospital would ask questions. The police would get involved. But he was bleeding out, and she didn’t know what else to do.
“Not the hospital,” Roman said, reading her mind. “Too many questions. There’s a clinic. Bucktown. Guy owes me a favor.”
“You know a guy who runs an underground clinic?”
“Used to patch up people who couldn’t go to hospitals. Gunshot wounds, knife fights, that kind of thing.” His head lolled against the seat. “Juliette, I need you to know—if I don’t make it—”
“You’re making it. You hear me? You’re not dying in my Honda. That’s a rule.”
He laughed, then groaned. “Rule. Okay.”
She drove like she’d never driven before—running red lights, weaving through traffic, praying no cops would pull them over. Roman guided her through gritted teeth, directions coming slower as he faded.
“Left here. Two blocks. Blue door. Knock three times.”
The clinic was a rundown storefront in a questionable neighborhood, but Juliette didn’t care. She parked illegally, ran around to Roman’s side, and helped him out. He could barely stand now, his weight crushing against her.
She knocked three times. Then three more when no one answered.
The door opened a crack. A woman peered out—middle-aged, hard-eyed, wearing scrubs. “We’re closed.”
“Please.” Juliette’s voice broke. “He’s been shot. He needs help.”
The woman’s gaze went to Roman, and something shifted in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Or just resigned acceptance of what her life had become.
“Inside. Quick.”
They stumbled through the door into a space that looked like someone had converted a living room into a makeshift medical bay. Exam table, IV stands, cabinets full of supplies. Not sterile, not official, but functional.
“On the table.” The woman was already moving, pulling on gloves, grabbing supplies. “How long ago?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe less.” Juliette helped Roman lie down, his blood staining the paper covering. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Depends on what the bullet hit.” The woman—no name given, Juliette noticed—cut away Roman’s shirt, revealing the wound. She probed it with efficient fingers while Roman hissed in pain. “Through and through. Missed the major vessels. You’re lucky.”
“Feels lucky,” Roman grated out.
The woman ignored him, prepping a needle. “This is going to hurt. Local anesthetic only—I can’t risk putting you under without proper equipment.”
“Just do it.”
What followed was twenty minutes of visceral horror that Juliette would never forget. The woman cleaning the wound, stitching entry and exit holes, Roman biting down on a leather strap to keep from screaming. Juliette held his hand through it all, his fingers crushing hers, tears streaming down both their faces.
Finally, it was done. Roman lay on the table, pale and shaking, bandaged and medicated.
“Keep it clean. Change the dressing twice a day. No strenuous activity for at least two weeks. If you see signs of infection—fever, red streaking, pus—get to a real hospital, questions be damned.” The woman pulled off her gloves. “That’s fifteen hundred. Cash.”
Juliette pulled bills from her wallet with numb fingers, counting out more than enough. “Thank you.”
The woman’s expression softened fractionally. “Get him home. Let him rest. And whatever trouble you two are in? Get out of it. Before next time he’s not so lucky.”
They made it back to the car, Roman moving like an old man, every step agony. Juliette drove home carefully this time, hyperaware of every bump, every turn that made Roman wince.
By the time they reached the apartment, dawn was breaking. She helped him inside, to the bedroom, eased him down onto the bed.
“I’m getting blood on your sheets,” he mumbled.
“I don’t care about the sheets.” She started to pull away but he caught her wrist with his good hand.
“You came for me.” His eyes were glassy with pain and medication, but the emotion in them was clear. “I told you to stay home and you came anyway.”
“Of course I did. You’re my husband.”
“Stubborn, impossible woman.”
“You married me,” she repeated.
“Best decision I ever made,” he said again. Then: “I love you. Even when I’m furious at you for risking your life. I love you.”
“I love you too.” The words came easily now, no hesitation. “Which is why you’re never doing something that stupid again. We face things together or not at all. Got it?”
“Got it.” His eyes were drifting closed. “Juliette?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She climbed into bed beside him, careful of his injury, and pulled the covers over them both. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”
He was asleep in seconds, his breathing evening out. Juliette lay beside him, watching his chest rise and fall, her mind replaying the night on an endless loop.
She’d almost lost him. Almost watched him die on the floor of that abandoned building.
And in that moment, she’d forgotten everything else—the danger, the complications, the fact that he was a man with ties to organized crime and a past soaked in violence.
She’d only seen Roman. Her Roman. The man who’d held her like she was precious. Who’d made her laugh. Who’d kissed her like she was air.
Glass shattered; his hand trembled first—with fury, with fear, with the barely controlled violence he carried in his bones.
But it had trembled. He was human. Breakable.
And she loved him anyway.
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