Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~14 min read
Roman came back exactly five minutes later, his expression grim but resolved.
“It’s handled,” was all he said.
“What’s handled? What did you do?”
“Set up a meeting for tomorrow night. Neutral ground. I’m going to find out what they want and end this.” He took her hand, pulling her out of the alley. “Come on. We’re not safe here.”
They took a circuitous route back to the apartment, Roman constantly checking over his shoulder, keeping Juliette tucked close to his side. By the time they made it home, her nerves were frayed to nothing.
The second the door closed behind them, she turned on him.
“You can’t just go meet with them. These are dangerous people, Roman. People who framed you for murder once already!”
“Which is exactly why I need to face them. Show them I’m not afraid. Show them you’re protected.” He shrugged off his jacket, movements tight with tension. “This is how it works, Juliette. You don’t run from people like this. You meet them head-on or they never stop coming.”
“Then I’m going with you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m your wife. Where you go, I go. Unified front, remember?”
“Not to this.” His voice went hard. “This isn’t a press interview or a family dinner. This is me sitting down with people who’d kill you without blinking if they thought it would hurt me. You’re not coming anywhere near that.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit here and wait? Wonder if you’re coming back?”
“Yes.” He crossed to her, gripping her shoulders. “Because if something happens to me, you need to be safe. You need to be able to walk away from this whole mess and build a normal life. That only works if you’re nowhere near tomorrow night.”
Juliette wanted to argue, to fight, to demand he take her along. But the fear in his eyes—not for himself, but for her—made the words die in her throat.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
“I know. Me too.” He pulled her into a hug, and she went, pressing her face against his chest, breathing him in. “But after tomorrow, it’ll be over. Whatever they want, I’ll give it to them. Then we can figure out what normal looks like for us.”
Normal. The word felt like a fantasy.
They spent the rest of the day in tense limbo. Roman made more calls on his burner phone, his voice low and clipped. Juliette tried to distract herself with work emails but couldn’t focus. The nonprofit had been mercifully understanding about her “family emergency,” but she couldn’t hide forever. Eventually, she’d have to go back to the office, face her coworkers, pretend everything was fine.
By evening, the walls of the apartment felt suffocating again.
“We need to get out,” Juliette announced suddenly. “Do something normal. I’m going crazy in here.”
Roman looked up from his phone, surprised. “You want to go out? After this morning?”
“Yes. Somewhere public. Somewhere we can just… be a couple.” She stood, decisive. “Take me to dinner.”
“Juliette—”
“Please. One normal evening before you go do something stupid and dangerous tomorrow. Give me that much.”
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”
“You pick. You said you wanted good Italian, right? Take me to your favorite place.”
Something shifted in his expression—vulnerability mixing with hope. “You sure? It’s in my old neighborhood. People might recognize me.”
“Let them.” Juliette grabbed her jacket. “I’m tired of hiding. We’re married. We’re allowed to go to dinner.”
Roman’s smile was slow, devastating. “Yeah. We are.”
The restaurant was called Lucia’s, tucked into a corner on Taylor Street in Little Italy. The kind of place with red checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles, family photos covering the walls, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce so thick you could taste it.
An older woman behind the host stand looked up when they walked in, and her eyes went wide.
“Roman Carver.” She said his name like a prayer and a curse mixed together. “After all these years.”
“Hi, Mrs. Rossi.” Roman’s voice was careful, respectful. “Is there any chance you have a table for two?”
Mrs. Rossi stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. She came around the stand and pulled him into a fierce hug.
“Eight years,” she said into his shoulder. “Eight years we watched them destroy you on the news. My Sal, he never believed it. Never. Said you weren’t that kind of boy.” She pulled back, gripping his arms. “He was right, wasn’t he? They lied. Said you killed Marcus when it was someone else all along.”
“Yeah.” Roman’s voice was rough. “They lied.”
“Bastardi.” She wiped her eyes, then seemed to notice Juliette for the first time. “And who is this beautiful girl?”
“This is Juliette. My wife.”
Mrs. Rossi’s eyebrows shot up. “Wife? You got married?”
“Recently. Very recently.” Roman’s hand found Juliette’s, threading their fingers together. “Jules, this is Mrs. Rossi. Her family’s run this place for forty years. My grandmother used to bring me here every Sunday.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Juliette said, and meant it. There was something warm about this woman, something genuine that the rest of their world had been missing.
“Wife,” Mrs. Rossi repeated, shaking her head in wonder. “Sal! Sal, get out here! Roman Carver brought his wife!”
A barrel-chested man emerged from the kitchen, flour dusting his apron. When he saw Roman, his face split into a grin. “Holy Mary, mother of God. The prodigal son returns.”
What followed was a flurry of Italian, hugs, and exclamations. Half the kitchen staff came out to see Roman, to welcome him home, to express their outrage at what had been done to him. Through it all, Roman kept Juliette’s hand in his, anchoring himself to her.
Finally, Mrs. Rossi led them to a corner table, the best seat in the house, and promised to bring them “everything good.”
“So this is your neighborhood,” Juliette said once they were alone, watching Roman’s face by candlelight. He looked different here—younger, lighter, like he could breathe for the first time in days.
“Yeah. I grew up six blocks from here. Spent every Sunday at this table with my grandmother, learning to twirl pasta on a fork.” His smile was wistful. “I thought I’d never see it again. Thought it would all be gone by the time I got out.”
“But it’s still here.”
“Yeah. It’s still here.” He looked at her, really looked, and something vulnerable crossed his face. “Thank you. For suggesting this. For coming here with me.”
“Of course. Where else would I be?”
“Anywhere else. Somewhere safe, somewhere far from me and my messed-up life.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “But you’re here. You keep choosing to be here.”
“Maybe I’m starting to like the company.”
His thumb brushed across her knuckles, the touch sending sparks up her arm. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The admission felt significant, weighted with meaning they both understood.
Mrs. Rossi returned with wine—”on the house, for the happy couple”—and appetizers that kept coming in waves. Bruschetta, calamari, fresh mozzarella with tomatoes that tasted like summer. Roman told stories about his grandmother, about growing up in this neighborhood, about the person he’d been before prison hardened him.
Juliette found herself laughing—really laughing—for the first time in days. Roman’s eyes never left her face, drinking in her joy like a man dying of thirst.
“What?” she asked, catching him staring.
“You’re beautiful when you laugh. I mean, you’re always beautiful. But when you laugh, it’s—” He shook his head. “It’s everything.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because it makes me—” She stopped, flustered.
“Makes you what?” He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Feel something?”
Yes. God, yes. It made her feel things she wasn’t ready to name, feelings that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
“Makes me wonder,” she said carefully, “what would have happened if we’d met differently. Under normal circumstances.”
“I’d have seen you across a crowded room and been too intimidated to approach.” His voice was soft, intimate. “You’d have been too good for a guy like me. Smart, kind, put-together. I’d have talked myself out of it before I even tried.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I’m lucky I got you at all, even if I had to buy my way in.” He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that made her breath stutter. “Every day you stay, Juliette. Every moment you choose this—choose me—I’m grateful.”
The air between them crackled with tension, heavy and heated. Juliette’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was dangerous territory, this pull toward him that got stronger every hour they spent together.
The main course arrived—pasta alla vodka, the dish Roman had mentioned days ago. He closed his eyes on the first bite, making a sound that should have been illegal.
“God, I missed this.” He opened his eyes and they were bright, alive. “Eight years of eating garbage and dreaming about this exact plate.”
Juliette tried a bite and had to agree—it was incredible. Rich and creamy and perfect. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind of quiet that felt intimate rather than awkward.
“Tell me something,” Roman said eventually. “Something I don’t know about you yet.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Your biggest fear. Your secret dream. The weirdest thing you’ve ever done.”
Juliette thought about it, twirling pasta on her fork. “Okay. Secret dream. I’ve always wanted to write a book. A romance novel, actually.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. I think it’s amazing.” He leaned back, studying her. “What kind of romance?”
“The kind with happy endings. The kind where the couple goes through hell but comes out the other side together.” She met his eyes. “The kind I always hoped existed in real life.”
“And does it? Exist in real life?”
“I don’t know yet.” The words hung between them, heavy with possibility. “Ask me in a few months.”
“I will.” It sounded like a promise. “Your turn. Ask me something.”
“What’s your biggest regret? Besides the obvious.”
Roman was quiet for a moment, his expression growing serious. “Not trusting the right people when I had the chance. I had friends who tried to warn me, who told me to get out of the life I was living. I thought I was too smart to get caught. Too careful. But I wasn’t careful enough, and I dragged everyone down with me.” He looked at her steadily. “I won’t make that mistake again. Anyone I let into my life now—I protect them. No matter what it costs me.”
“Even if they don’t want to be protected?”
“Especially then.” His hand found hers across the table again. “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself for me, Juliette. That’s not how this works.”
“Then what is how this works? This marriage. Us. What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.” His thumb traced circles on her palm, distracting and deliberate. “We make it up as we go. Figure out what we need, what we can give. Build something real out of something that started fake.”
“And if we fail?”
“We won’t.” He said it with such certainty that she almost believed him. “Because I’m not letting you go. And I don’t think you want me to.”
He was right. God help her, he was right.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of wine and laughter and long looks that made Juliette’s skin feel too tight. Roman told her about the books he’d read in prison—everything from philosophy to trash novels smuggled in by guards. She told him about her favorite romantic comedy, about the time she’d gotten locked in a bathroom at a wedding and missed the ceremony.
By the time dessert arrived—tiramisu that Mrs. Rossi insisted they share—Juliette felt drunk on more than wine. She felt drunk on possibility, on the dangerous idea that maybe this could work. Maybe a marriage born of desperation could transform into something real.
Roman fed her a bite of tiramisu, and when she licked cream from her lip, his eyes went dark.
“We should go,” he said, his voice rough.
“Why?”
“Because if we stay here much longer, I’m going to kiss you in front of everyone, and I don’t think you want our first real kiss to be a public spectacle.”
“Our first real kiss?” She tilted her head. “What about last night? In my parents’ living room?”
“That was desperation. This would be choice.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Big difference.”
Heat pooled low in her belly. “Maybe I want a public spectacle.”
“Juliette.” Her name was a warning and a plea.
“Maybe I want you to kiss me right here, right now, so everyone can see that you’re mine.”
Something blazed in his eyes—possessive and hungry and barely controlled. He stood abruptly, throwing cash on the table—way too much—and held out his hand.
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
She took his hand, letting him pull her up. They said quick goodbyes to Mrs. Rossi, Roman promising to come back soon. Then they were outside in the cool night air, and Roman was pulling her into the shadows beside the restaurant.
“Here?” Juliette’s pulse raced. “We’re not even home yet.”
“Can’t wait.” His hands framed her face, tilting her head back. “Been wanting to do this all night. Been wanting to do this since I saw you walk into that consultation room and looked at me like I was human.”
“Roman—”
He kissed her.
Not gentle this time. Not careful. This was hunger and need and eight years of wanting something good, something real, something worth fighting for. His mouth claimed hers with an intensity that made her knees buckle. She grabbed his jacket to stay upright, kissing him back with everything she had.
His thumb grazed her lower lip as he took her glass—wine and want and the promise of more.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Roman rested his forehead against hers.
“Tell me you felt that,” he demanded. “Tell me I’m not alone in this.”
“You’re not alone.” Her voice shook. “I feel it too. Whatever this is. I feel it.”
“Thank God.” He kissed her again, softer this time but no less devastating. “I’m falling in love with you, Juliette. I know it’s too soon. I know you’re not there yet. But I need you to know—”
“I know.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, stopping the confession. “I know. And Roman? I’m falling too. Slower, maybe. More carefully. But I’m falling.”
His smile was brilliant, transformative. He picked her up and spun her, and she laughed, dizzy with wine and want and the terrifying, exhilarating feeling of free-falling into something she couldn’t control.
They walked home hand in hand, stopping every few blocks to kiss like teenagers, unable to keep their hands off each other. By the time they reached the apartment, Juliette’s lips were swollen, her body humming with need.
Roman unlocked the door and they stumbled inside, still wrapped around each other. He kicked the door shut and pressed her against it, kissing down her neck, finding that spot below her ear that made her gasp.
“Bedroom,” she managed. “Roman, bedroom—”
“Yeah.” He pulled back, eyes dark with want. “But Juliette—are you sure? Because if we do this, if we cross this line—”
“We’re already married. How much more crossed can the line get?”
“This is different. This makes it real.”
“It’s already real.” She took his hand, leading him toward the bedroom. “It’s been real since you said my name in that prison and looked at me like I mattered. Now stop talking and come to bed.”
He followed, and for the first time since everything started, Juliette felt certain about something.
This was right. He was right.
And whatever happened tomorrow, whatever dangers waited in the wings, tonight was theirs.
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