"I can't sleep." I close the door behind me and move into the room, my bare feet silent on the expensive rug. "Not when I know something's wrong. Not when I'm being kept in the dark about threats that affect me, affect our child."
Roman's expression hardens into that cold mask he wears when he's done negotiating. "This isn't your concern."
"The hell it isn't." My voice rises slightly, passion breaking through my careful control. "I'm marrying you in just days, Roman. I'm carrying your heir. I'm living in your world, surrounded by your enemies. How is any of this not my concern?"
He drains his vodka and sets the glass down with deliberate precision. "Knowledge makes you a target. The less you know, the safer you are."
"That's bullshit and you know it." I close the distance between us, tilting my head back to maintain eye contact. This close, I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with vodka and something darker, more dangerous. My body responds instinctively, my pulse quickening, my thighs clenching with awareness I can't suppress. "I'm already a target simply by being yours. Daria proved that when she came at me with a letter opener. Ignorance won't save me, Roman. Information might."
Something flickers in his blue eyes, calculation warring with the protective instinct I've seen him struggle with since the moment he learned about the baby. His gaze drops to my stomach, still mostly flat beneath the thin nightgown, and his hands curl into fists at his sides like he's restraining himself from reaching for me.
"You don't understand what you're asking," he says, his voice low and controlled. "The things I've done, the enemies I've made, the violence that defines my world. Once you know, you can't unknow it."
"I already know you're a monster." The words come out softer than I intend, almost gentle. "I watched you kill a man in your office. I've seen the cleaners erase evidence. I know what you're capable of, Roman. What I don't know is what threats we're facing right now, what enemies are circling."
He studies my face for a long moment, his blue eyes searching for something, but I have no idea what. Then his shoulders sag slightly, the first crack in his armor I've seen tonight.
"Sit," he says, gesturing toward the leather couch.
I settle onto the expensive furniture, tucking my legs beneath me, acutely aware of how the nightgown rides up my thighs. Roman's gaze tracks the movement, his eyes darkening with desire before he forces his attention back to my face. He pours himself another vodka, then sits in the chair across from me, maintaining distance like he doesn't trust himself to be closer.
"Abram Yakovlev is systematically destroying everything I've built," he begins, his voice flat and controlled. "The dock delays, the financial exposure, the attacks on Chinese and Irish operations that are being blamed on me. It's all coordinated. All designed to fracture my alliances and make me look weak."
My stomach clenches with dread. "Can you prove it?"
"No." The single word is bitter, frustrated. "He's too careful. Every attack is executed through intermediaries. Every piece of evidence leads to dead ends. But I know it's him."
"What happens if you can't prove it?"
Roman's jaw tightens. "The other families unite against me. I lose everything. Or I move against Abram without proof and trigger the war he wants, which accomplishes the same thing."
I process this information, my mind racing through implications. "What about the financial problems? The IRS audit?"
"Someone's feeding them information." His accent thickens with barely controlled rage. "They know exactly where to look, what transactions to examine. My lawyer is running out of legal maneuvers to protect the legitimate businesses."
The walls are closing in. I can see it in the tension of Roman's shoulders, the way his hands grip the vodka glass hard enough that his knuckles go white. This man who's always seemed invincible, who moves through the world with absolute confidence, is watching his empire crumble.
"There's something else," he says quietly, and the pain in his voice makes my chest ache. "Something worse."
I wait, giving him space to gather the words.
"I have a sister. Katya." His blue eyes meet mine, and I see vulnerability there I've never witnessed before. "She lives in Moscow. She's innocent, Eva. Completely untouched by my world. She teaches art to children, paints icons, and believes in redemption and forgiveness. She's the only good thing left from my childhood."
My throat tightens with understanding. "Abram knows about her."
"I believe it's him. He's been sending her gifts." Roman's voice drops to something dangerous, protective. "Proving he can reach her anytime he wants. That he knows my greatest weakness."
The fear in his expression breaks something in my chest. I stand and move to him, kneeling beside his chair, my hand covering his where it grips the armrest. His skin is warm beneath my palm, and I feel the tension vibrating through his body.
"Bring her here," I say quietly. "To America. Where your security can actually protect her."
Relief floods his expression. "I'm already arranging it. She arrives next week."
"Good." I squeeze his hand, then stand, acutely aware of how close we are, how his blue eyes are fixed on my body in the thin nightgown. "She'll be safe here. We'll keep her safe."
Roman stands too, and suddenly, we're inches apart, the air between us crackling with electricity. His gaze drops to my breasts, and I see his chest rise and fall with rapid breaths. My nipples tighten beneath the fabric, responding to his attention, and heat floods through me despite everything.
Roman's thumb traces my lower lip, and I feel the touch like fire. "We should go out," he says suddenly, his voice rough. "On a date. A real one."
