Part 2: A Crime Boss Followed His Housekeeper to the Hospital and Discovered She Was Paying for His Worst Sin

The lead pipe clattered to the concrete floor.

The tall man blinked, his eyes wide with shock, before looking down at his right shoulder. A neat, red hole had bloomed through the leather of his jacket. A second later, the force of the kinetic impact threw him sideways, his back crashing against the bumper of the car.

"Move," a voice snarled from the stairwell.

Claire slid to her knees against the front tire, gasping for air, her vision swimming.

Walking toward them through the rain mist was Roman.

He didn't look like Mr. Vance, the refined, polite recluse who asked for French press coffee and read financial journals by the fire. He was an apex predator stripped of his velvet disguise. His eyes were burning with a homicidal fire that made the temperature in the concrete garage plummet. In his right hand, a heavy black pistol was leveled with mechanical precision.

The second thug with the knife panicked, grabbing Claire by the hair and pulling her up to use her as a human shield. "Back off! Back the hell off, Torrio, or I’ll slit her—"

Roman didn't negotiate. He didn't blink.

He closed the distance in three blindingly fast strides. His left hand shot out like an iron vise, grabbing the thug’s knife wrist and twisting it until the bone snapped with a sickening *crack*. The knife clattered to the asphalt.

Before the man could scream, Roman drove the butt of his heavy steel pistol directly into his temple. The thug collapsed like an empty sack of flour, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The first man was crawling on his belly toward the exit, whimpering and clutching his bleeding shoulder. Roman walked up behind him, planting the sole of his bespoke dress shoe firmly on the man’s neck, pinning his skull to the oil-stained concrete.

"Tell Patrick Doran," Roman whispered, the muzzle of the hot gun pressed directly against the man’s ear, "that if he or any of his filth ever looks at this woman, this hospital, or this child again, I will skin him alive and feed him to the stray dogs on Pier 17."

"Y-yes... yes, please..." the man choked out, sobbing in terror.

"Run."

Roman lifted his boot. The wounded man scrambled to his feet, slipping in his own blood, and bolted down the ramp toward the street.

The garage fell dead silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of water from the ceiling and the ragged sound of Claire’s breathing.

Roman stood amidst the violence, his chest heaving slightly. He slowly lowered the weapon, flicked the safety on, and slipped it into the holster beneath his coat. Then, he turned to Claire.

The gentleman mask was completely shattered. He was covered in gunsmoke and rain, his face hard and terrifying.

"Claire," he said, taking a step toward her, his voice trembling for the first time. "Are you hurt?"

Claire scrambled backward on her hands and knees until her back hit the concrete pillar, staring at him in unadulterated horror.