Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~10 min read
Roman on her couch was a study in contradictions.
He sat with careful stillness, like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but his presence filled the entire apartment anyway. Too big, too male, too there. Juliette busied herself in the kitchenette, making coffee neither of them would probably drink, just to have something to do with her hands.
“You don’t have to wait on me,” Roman said quietly.
“I’m not. I need coffee. Do you want some?”
“Please.”
She poured two mugs, added cream and sugar to hers, left his black because she didn’t know how he took it. Didn’t know anything about him, really. What he liked to eat. How he slept. What made him laugh.
She was married to a stranger.
Juliette handed him the mug and sat in the armchair across from the couch, maintaining distance. He noticed—of course he noticed—but didn’t comment. Just wrapped his hands around the ceramic like he was trying to memorize the warmth.
“How long were you planning to stay?” she asked, then immediately regretted how it sounded. “I mean—do you have somewhere else to go? An apartment, or—”
“No.” Roman took a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving her face. “I had a place before I went in. They sold it to cover legal fees years ago. Everything I owned is in a storage unit in Hammond. Which probably got auctioned off for unpaid rent by now.”
Eight years. He’d lost eight years and everything that came with them.
“You can stay here,” Juliette heard herself offer. “Until you figure things out.”
Something shifted in his expression. “You sure? It’s a small space.”
“We’re married. People will expect us to live together anyway.” She tried to sound practical, businesslike. “Besides, you were right about the photographers. If you’re staying somewhere else, they’ll find out. Make it a story.”
“Always thinking ahead.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Thank you.”
They sat in awkward silence, sipping coffee. Juliette’s mind raced with a thousand questions she didn’t know how to ask. Finally, Roman set his mug down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“You want to know about my past. About what the news isn’t saying.”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d been expecting it. “My father ran with some bad people. Chicago outfit, low-level. Enforcement, collections, that kind of thing. I grew up around it. By the time I was twenty, I was running a club in River North. Legitimate business, mostly, but it was a front for laundering money. I knew it. I didn’t care.”
Juliette’s stomach tightened, but she kept her face neutral. “And Marcus Beaumont?”
“Was a regular. Gambled too much, owed too much. One night he turned up dead in the alley behind my club. Single gunshot, execution-style. Cops found my prints on the gun because I’d handled it earlier that night—someone left it in the VIP section, I secured it behind the bar. Witnesses said they saw me arguing with Beaumont an hour before he died.” Roman’s jaw clenched. “The case was circumstantial, but the DA wanted a win. I was the perfect target. Young, cocky, connected to organized crime. They painted me as a mobster who killed a man over gambling debts.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” His eyes met hers, and she saw the truth there, stark and unwavering. “I didn’t. I argued with him because he was harassing one of my bartenders. Told him to pay his tab and get out. That was it. Someone else killed him. Someone who knew exactly how to frame me for it.”
“Do you know who?”
“I have suspicions. No proof.” His hands fisted on his knees. “The real killer is someone with enough pull to make evidence disappear, to make witnesses change their stories. Someone who wanted Beaumont dead and me out of the way.”
“Someone from your father’s world.”
“Yeah.”
Juliette processed that, her coffee going cold in her hands. “And now you’re out. Won’t they—”
“Come after me?” Roman’s smile was dark, humorless. “Already have. That email I showed you was just the opening move. They’re watching, waiting to see what I do next. If I come for them. If I have proof hidden somewhere. If I’m a threat.”
“And are you? A threat?”
“I’m a man who lost eight years of his life. What do you think?”
The intensity in his voice made her shiver. This was the Roman the media warned about—the dangerous one, the one with connections to organized crime and a vendetta burning in his chest.
But it was also the Roman who’d touched her face like she was something precious. Who’d asked permission with his eyes before kissing her. Who’d said please in a prison consultation room.
“I think you’re going to get yourself killed,” Juliette said quietly. “And maybe me with you.”
“No.” The word came out sharp, absolute. “Nothing touches you. That’s why the marriage works—street rules say a wife is sacred. Off-limits. They can come at me directly, but they can’t use you to hurt me. Not without breaking rules that would turn every crew in the city against them.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s the life.” He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. His shoulders were tight, defensive. “I know it’s not what you signed up for. I know you’re probably regretting every second of this. But Juliette—” He turned to face her. “I meant what I said. I’ll give you anything. You want out of Chicago? I’ll get you set up somewhere else, new identity, enough money to start over. You want me gone? I’ll file the divorce papers myself, make sure you’re protected before I disappear. Just tell me what you need.”
She should take the out. Should run as far and fast as possible from this man and his dangerous world and his beautiful lies.
Instead, she stood and crossed to him, stopping just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
“I need the truth. All of it. No more surprises.”
“Done.”
“I need you to promise me that whatever war you’re planning, you don’t drag innocent people into it. My family is off-limits. My friends. My coworkers.”
“They already are. You have my word.”
“And I need—” She swallowed hard, her next words feeling like stepping off a cliff. “I need you to be patient with me. This is all happening so fast. The marriage, the media, you standing in my apartment like you belong here. I can’t—I don’t know how to process it.”
Roman’s expression softened. He raised his hand slowly, giving her time to refuse, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear just like before. The gesture was becoming familiar. Dangerously so.
“I can be patient,” he said quietly. “I waited eight years to be free. I can wait as long as you need to be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and her breath caught. “For this to be real. For us to be real.”
“We barely know each other.”
“Then let me fix that.” He stepped back, giving her space, and the loss of his warmth felt like a physical ache. “Ask me anything. I’m an open book now. No secrets, remember?”
Juliette’s mind went blank. Where did you even start with someone whose entire life was a mystery wrapped in prison time and organized crime?
“What’s your favorite color?” she blurted out, then immediately felt ridiculous.
Roman blinked, then laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “That’s what you want to know? My favorite color?”
“Yes. We have to start somewhere.”
His smile lingered, transforming his face from dangerous to devastating. “Blue. Dark blue, like the lake at night. What’s yours?”
“Green. Forest green.” She found herself smiling back despite everything. “Favorite food?”
“Italian. My grandmother was from Naples. She made this pasta alla vodka that would make you cry.” His expression went distant, wistful. “Haven’t had good Italian in eight years. Prison food is—”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“Smart.” He moved back to the couch, settling in like he was planning to stay awhile. “Your turn. What do you do when you’re not saving your family from financial ruin?”
The reminder of why she’d married him stung, but she pushed through it. “I read. Romance novels, mostly. I know, it’s cliché.”
“Why romance?”
“Because they always end happy. No matter how bad things get, you know the couple will end up together. It’s comforting.”
Roman’s eyes stayed locked on hers. “And do you believe that? That people can end up happy after everything goes wrong?”
“I want to.” The admission felt vulnerable, exposed. “I want to believe that sometimes the bad stuff is just the middle, not the ending.”
“Me too,” he said softly. “Me too.”
They talked for hours after that. Small things, inconsequential things. He told her about learning to play chess in prison, about the books he’d read to pass the time, about the tattoo he’d gotten from another inmate using a makeshift gun. She told him about her job at the nonprofit, about her college roommate who’d moved to Portland, about the time she’d accidentally set her kitchen on fire trying to make crème brûlée.
The afternoon light shifted to evening gold, and Juliette realized with a start that it was nearly six o’clock.
“We need to go,” she said, standing abruptly. “My parents. I told them we’d come tonight.”
Roman’s easy demeanor vanished, replaced by something harder. “You’re sure about this? Once we tell them, we can’t take it back.”
“I’m sure.” She grabbed her keys and jacket. “They deserve to know the truth. All of it.”
“All of it?” His voice was careful. “Including the organized crime connections? The threats?”
Juliette paused, hand on the doorknob. “Including the fact that I married you to pay off their debts. They’ve probably already figured that part out. The rest—” She looked back at him. “We’ll figure out how much to share. But no lies. Not to them.”
Roman stood, grabbed the leather jacket he’d draped over the couch. “Okay. No lies.”
They headed for the door together, and Juliette felt the weight of what they were about to do settle over her shoulders. Her parents. Her father, who’d always protected her. Her mother, who’d raised her to be smart and careful and safe.
She was about to introduce them to her husband. The ex-con. The accused murderer. The man with a target on his back and danger in his eyes.
She was about to break their hearts.
Roman’s hand found hers as they stepped into the hallway. His fingers threaded through hers, warm and solid, and when she looked up at him in surprise, he squeezed gently.
“Together,” he said simply.
“Together,” she echoed.
The word felt like a promise. Or maybe a warning.
“A deal doesn’t warm an empty bed,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, rough with wanting.
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