Chapter 8 - The Price of an Empire
By evening, the warehouse had been cleared by Roman’s clean-up crew. The hacked server racks were dismantled, the stolen port codes restored, and the Alied brothers were tied up in the back of an unmarked transport van headed out of state, never to bother Port Mercer again.
Back at the penthouse loft overlooking the harbor, the city lights flickered across the polished concrete floor like a field of fallen stars.
Nora sat at the kitchen island, nursing a cup of black coffee, watching Roman as he locked his firearm in a wall safe behind his desk.
“Well,” Nora said, breaking the silence. “That was certainly more exciting than serving ribeye and Barolo.”
Roman closed the safe, walking slowly over to the kitchen counter. He pulled a thick, white envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the marble surface toward her.
Nora looked down at it. She opened the flap. Inside sat a certified cashier’s check made out to St. Jude’s Recovery Center for the full annual balance of Thomas’s rehabilitation, along with a second check—an amount with enough zeros to make her old bank account look like a statistical error.
“What is this second one?” she asked, looking up.
“Your back pay,” Roman said simply. “For services rendered as a military intelligence consultant and tactical linguist.”
Nora stared at the checks, then up at Roman’s composed, unreadable face. “You’re actually paying me off so I can walk away.”
“Are you going to walk away?” Roman asked, leaning against the counter, his pale eyes searching hers.
Nora thought about the tiny apartment with the red-warning electricity bill. She thought about the endless, aching shifts at Leto, the condescending managers, the arrogant diners who thought a waitress was invisible. Then she thought about the rush of the warehouse, the precision of the code, and the terrifying, electric clarity of standing beside a man who commanded an entire city.
She slid the checks back into the envelope, picked it up, and stood slowly from her stool.
May you like
“I’m a terrible waitress anyway,” Nora said, a slow, confident smile touching her lips. “And I hear your security detail needs someone who actually understands what people are saying behind your back.”
Roman’s mouth twitched into a genuine, rare smile.
