Chapter 8 - THE HEIR TO THE EMPIREThe private jet climbed steadily through the thick cloud layer, breaking through into the blinding, brilliant sunlight of the upper atmosphere.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the violence of the Brooklyn docks. Plush leather seats, mahogany trim, and the soft hum of jet engines created an oasis of absolute calm.
Elena sat by the window, sipping a glass of sparkling water, her gaze fixed on the endless sea of white clouds below.
Roman walked out of the cockpit, loosening his tie, and sank into the seat opposite her. He looked at her for a long, quiet moment—really looked at her—seeing past the quiet grace, past the mother of his unborn child, to the cold, brilliant tactician who had outmaneuvered two criminal syndicates without ever raising her voice.
You’re very quiet, Elena, Roman said softly.
I’m just thinking, she replied, turning her head to meet his gaze.
About what?
About how lucky you are that I didn't decide to keep the empire for myself.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Roman’s face—the first real smile he had worn in years. He reached across the aisle, taking her hand in his. Her fingers were warm, steady, and completely unyielding.
You’re right, he said, his voice dropping its defensive armor for something raw and honest. I spent nine years thinking I was protecting you. Turns out I was just the guard dog keeping the real queen safe.
Elena didn't pull her hand away. She squeezed his fingers back with surprising strength.
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Don't forget it, Roman.
The jet banked gently to the left, heading south toward a private island in the Caribbean where a new life, completely detached from the blood and shadows of the past, was waiting for them.
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