Chapter 3 - The Collateral Damage
The noise of the Onyx Club seemed to recede into a distant, muffled hum. The bass vibrating through the floorboards suddenly felt irrelevant, a heartbeat away from stopping entirely.
"What did you say?" I asked, my voice barely a breath.
Roman didn't sit back down. He stood tall, towering over the low table, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate precision. He didn't look at me with pity; he looked at me like a strategist assessing an unexpected board state.
"Your boyfriend didn't just borrow money from a low-level bookie," Roman said, motioning for his security chief to step back. "He used your social security number to secure a commercial lease for a warehouse down by the dock district three months ago. Property registered under Nora Hayes."
The world tilted.
I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. "That's impossible. I don't even have a commercial lease. I live in a thirty-year-old studio apartment where the radiator clanks all winter. I've never owned a warehouse."
"You don't own it. You're liable for it," Roman corrected, his tone flat and uncompromising. "The warehouse was used to store contraband goods—unsanctioned electronics, gray-market imports. The federal authorities haven't raided it yet because my people control the port logistics, but the local syndicate that fronted him the capital is looking for their collateral."
"Collateral," I whispered, the word tasting like ash.
"You."
The pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity. The sudden influx of expensive packages arriving at our apartment. David’s nervous late-night phone calls in the hallway. The way he had insisted, just last week, that I sign a bundle of "tax documents" so we could file jointly and get a bigger refund. I had refused, telling him I needed to look them over first.
If I had signed those papers, I wouldn't just be broke—I would be facing federal fraud charges and a cartel debt.
"He set me up," I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. Tears stung the backs of my eyes, but I forced them down, refusing to cry in front of a man who dealt in threats and ledgers. "He actually set me up."
"Men like that always do," Roman said. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a slim metal card, sliding it across the table toward me. "That warehouse sits on land owned by a shell company affiliated with my rivals. They think you're the silent partner running the distribution channel."
I stared at the card. It was blank, matte black, with a single embossed monogram.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice shaking. "You could have let them take me. You could have let whatever is happening happen."
"Because I don't like people operating on my turf without my knowledge," Roman said simply. "And because you accidentally called me 'baby' in front of fifty people, which means your name is now uncomfortably tied to mine in the local gossip mill. If my associates think I have a soft spot for a warehouse distributor, I need to know whether that liability is worth keeping alive—or worth protecting."
Protecting. The word sounded absurd coming from a man who looked like he spent his weekends burying bodies in concrete.
"I don't want your protection," I said, standing up from the booth, my knees shaking. "I want my life back. I want to go home, pack his bags, and throw every single thing he owns out onto the sidewalk."
Roman watched me rise. He didn't try to stop me this time. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth.
May you like
"Go ahead, Nora," he said quietly. "Throw his things on the sidewalk. But when you open that apartment door, don't be surprised if he isn't the only one waiting for you."
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