Chapter 5 - The Velvet and the Steel
In the solarium of the Bellandi estate, the afternoon sun slanted through leaded glass panels, casting diamond-shaped patterns of pale yellow light across the terra-cotta tiles.
Norah sat on an iron garden bench surrounded by towering hibiscus and lemon trees in large glazed pots. For the first time in her adult life, she had nothing to do. Her hands, perpetually occupied with sponges, dusters, or heavy laundry baskets, felt unnervingly light in her lap.
She was wearing a long, emerald-green wool skirt and a cream cashmere turtleneck that Teresa had insisted on having brought from an upscale boutique in Oak Street that morning. The fabric was absurdly soft, hugging the generous, feminine curve of her hips and bust while rising high enough to completely conceal the silvered tissue on her shoulder.
A shadow fell across the sunlit tiles.
Norah looked up to see Roman walking toward her. He had shed his suit jacket and tie, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his forearms, revealing the dark, corded muscle and a faint, jagged scar from a bullet wound near his right wrist.
“You look comfortable,” he said, sitting down on the opposite end of the bench without asking.
“I feel like an imposter,” Norah replied honestly, looking down at the emerald skirt. “This fabric costs more than my father’s funeral.”
“Your father was a gambler who left you with five thousand dollars in debt to loan sharks,” Roman said mildly. “You owe him no loyalty, Norah. And this fabric costs what it costs because it belongs on you.”
Norah felt a sudden heat rise into her cheeks. She looked away, focusing on the dark green leaves of a lemon tree. “You shouldn't say things like that to me, Mr. Bellandi.”
“Roman.”
“Mr. Bellandi.”
“Norah,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, inescapable tone. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she turned her head. His hazel eyes were intensely focused, stripping away her defenses with casual ease.
“You spent thirteen years believing you were ugly,” Roman said bluntly.
Norah’s breath caught. Her defensive walls, built over a decade of sneering remarks from employers, catcalls from drunken men on the El, and the casual cruelty of women like Vanessa, rose instantly. “I am realistic about what I am. I am not a delicate girl. I have broad shoulders, wide hips, and half my upper body looks like melted wax. I don't need you to feed me fairy tales because your sister has her life.”
Roman leaned forward, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of her face. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, warm and shockingly gentle.
“The women in my world are paper dolls,” Roman murmured, his thumb trailing down to the soft, full curve of her lower lip. “They starve themselves down to bone so they can fit into French dresses that cost eighty thousand dollars. They paint their faces so thick you can't tell if they’re laughing or weeping. They have no weight, Norah. No substance. You blow on them, and they scatter like dry leaves.”
Norah’s eyes widened, her lips parting slightly against his touch.
“You,” Roman said, his voice husky, “have substance. You have warmth. When I hold your arm, I feel life. And that mark on your shoulder isn't an ugliness, Norah. It’s the brand of a woman who walked into a furnace to save a child while men twice your size ran for the street.”
He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. Norah could feel the rhythmic warmth of his breath against her skin. Her body, usually so guarded, so accustomed to shrinking into the background, felt electric, alive, and desperately heavy with a longing she had never allowed herself to acknowledge.
“Roman...” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You don't know me. You only know what I did.”
“Then let me learn,” he said.
Before she could answer, the glass door of the solarium swung open with a sharp, concussive bang.
Sal stood in the doorway, his leather jacket unzipped, his breathing heavy. His hand was resting firmly on the grip of the Glock holstered beneath his ribs.
“Boss,” Sal said, his voice tight. “We have a problem.”
Roman did not pull his hand away from Norah’s cheek immediately. He took a slow, deliberate second to let his thumb stroke her jawline one last time before dropping his arm and turning to his lieutenant.
“What is it?”
“Lorenzo Caruso didn't pack his bags,” Sal said, glancing briefly at Norah with an expression of grim urgency. “He hit the downtown dispatch office twenty minutes ago. Took out two of our couriers. And Vanessa... Vanessa wasn't at the family compound in River Forest when our people arrived.”
Roman’s eyes darkened until they looked like black glass. He stood up slowly, the gentleness of the solarium evaporating instantly, replaced by the terrifying, monolithic presence of the head of the Bellandi family.
“Where is she?” Roman asked.
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“We don't know,” Sal said. “But three black Suburbans with tinted plates just blew through the north security gate at the edge of the estate. They cut the telephone lines three minutes ago.”
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