“Seriously, though.”

Silence.

“My sister doesn’t know about any of this.”

“I know.”

“She stays out.”

“She stays out.”

“If something happens to me, you don’t turn her into some debt you have to repay.”

Sheree lifted her head.

Roman stood absolutely still.

Marcus continued.

“She’ll hate that.”

A pause.

“She’s proud. Too proud. Gets that from Mom.”

Sheree laughed through tears.

Then Marcus said the words that destroyed her.

“Just make sure nobody ever stops her from becoming what she’s supposed to be. From a distance, Roman. Promise me.”

Young Roman answered.

“I promise.”

The recording ended.

Sheree stared at the machine.

Silence filled the room.

Then understanding came.

Slowly.

Painfully.

She looked at Roman.

“My scholarship.”

Roman said nothing.

“The anonymous emergency grant in second year.”

Nothing.

“The year my mother’s mortgage somehow got transferred to a lender who gave her an extension.”

Roman looked toward the floor.

“My landlord.”

“Not me.”

She stared.

“The hospital?”

Roman shook his head.

“No. You earned every inch of that.”

“But the scholarship?”

“Yes.”

Sheree stood.

Her grief became anger again.

“You promised him not to make me a debt.”

“I know.”

“And then you paid for my school.”

“Half a semester.”

“You paid.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me.”

“Protected.”

“Watched.”

Roman accepted the word.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I failed him.”

“No.”

Roman’s expression hardened.

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I know he made a choice.”

“A choice he wouldn’t have needed to make if he hadn’t known me.”

“And you think punishing yourself gives him back?”

Roman went silent.

Sheree pointed to the recorder.

“He told you not to turn me into a debt.”

“I tried.”

“You left ten thousand dollars on my table.”

“That was for the floor.”

For one stunned second, Sheree stared.

Then she laughed.

A broken, tear-soaked laugh.

Roman smiled.

And somehow that made her cry harder.

“Idiot.”

“Yes.”

“You arrogant, terrifying idiot.”

“Probably.”

She wiped her face.

Roman’s smile disappeared.

“There’s one more thing.”

Sheree’s stomach tightened.

“Of course there is.”

“The police report about Marcus was false.”

She went still.

Roman continued.

“I made it false.”

“Why?”

“Because telling the truth would have connected him to me.”

“You erased him.”

“I protected you.”

“By lying.”

“Yes.”

Sheree’s voice cracked.

“My mother died believing nobody stopped.”

Roman’s face went pale.

“I didn’t know.”

“She spent her last years believing her son was alone on the ground.”

Roman closed his eyes.

“I didn’t know that.”

“You should have.”

“Yes.”

Sheree slapped him.

The sound snapped through the kitchen.

Roman didn’t move.

She hit his chest with both hands.

Once.

Again.

“You should have told us.”

“I know.”

“She deserved to know someone held him.”

“I know.”

“She deserved to know he wasn’t afraid alone.”

“I know.”

Her fists weakened.

Roman caught her only when her knees gave out.

Sheree shoved him once.

Then stopped fighting.

Her forehead struck his chest.

And Roman Vescari—the man prosecutors called untouchable, the man men twice his size would not look directly in the eye—stood in a quiet kitchen and held the sister of the man who had died saving him.

Sheree cried until breathing hurt.

Roman said nothing.

There was nothing safe to say.

Eventually, she whispered, “What did he say at the end?”

Roman went rigid.

Sheree felt it.

“Tell me.”

“He was losing consciousness.”

“Tell me.”

Roman’s voice dropped.

“He asked whether I was alive.”

Her eyes closed.

“I said yes.”

A pause.

“He said, ‘Good.’”

Sheree broke again.

Roman’s hand tightened at her back.

“He made me promise you would never know he worked for me.”

“Why?”

“He thought you’d blame yourself.”

“For what?”

Roman swallowed.

“He borrowed money from you before he started driving.”

Sheree remembered.

Eight hundred dollars.

She had complained for months.

Marcus had kept saying he would repay her.

“He started working for me because your mother’s furnace died.”

Sheree pulled back.

Roman’s eyes were wet now.

“He needed money to replace it.”

She stared.

“Eight hundred dollars.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why?”

“At first.”

Sheree covered her mouth.

All those years.

She had thought Marcus was reckless.

Secretive.

Maybe gambling.

Instead, he had been trying to keep their mother warm.

“And the last thing he said?”

Roman breathed in.

“He told me not to give you the money back.”

Despite herself, Sheree frowned.

Roman’s mouth trembled.

“He said you’d never let him hear the end of it if I did.”

Sheree laughed and sobbed at once.

“That sounds like him.”

“Yes.”

For several minutes, neither moved.

Then Sheree noticed Roman’s shirt.

Blood.

Again.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine.”

“It is literally dripping.”

“I’ve had worse.”

She wiped her face.

“Sit down.”

Roman looked at the chair.

Then at her.

Something passed between them.

Six years.

Two siblings.

One alley.

A debt neither had asked for.

“Sheree—”

“Sit.”

Roman sat.

She opened her bag.

Cleaned the wound.

Her fingers were steadier this time.

Roman watched her.

“Why?”

She didn’t look up.

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me?”

Sheree threaded a needle.

“Don’t make it romantic.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were about to.”

Roman almost smiled.

She pushed the needle through skin.

He flinched.

“Good.”

“You did that deliberately.”

“Maybe.”

She tied the stitch.

Then another.

“You lied to me.”

“Yes.”

“You interfered in my life.”

“Yes.”

“You frightened me.”

“Yes.”

“You got my brother killed.”

Roman’s face emptied.

Sheree stopped stitching.

“But he loved you.”

Roman looked up sharply.

She could see it now.

Not obedience.

Not employment.

Not some criminal arrangement.

Love.

The strange brutal brotherhood of men who had survived terrible things together.

Sheree looked at Marcus’s wallet.

“He must have.”

Roman’s eyes shone.

“Because Marcus didn’t die for people he didn’t love.”

Roman looked away.

That was the moment she understood something else.

Roman had not spent six years returning to the alley because of guilt alone.

He missed him.

Maybe as much as she did.

Sheree finished the final stitch.

“There.”

Roman looked down.

“Thank you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“For saving my life,” he added.

“Twice.”

“Twice.”

“No money.”

“No money.”

“No anonymous payments.”

Roman hesitated.

“Roman.”

“No anonymous payments.”

“No men outside my apartment unless I know they’re there.”

“That one is negotiable.”

“It is not.”

“Sanz still has people.”

“Sanz is alive?”

“For now.”

Sheree studied him.

“What happens to him?”

Roman’s expression changed.

The mafia boss returned.

“That’s not something you should carry.”

Normally she would have argued.

This time, she understood.

There were parts of Roman’s world she did not want.

Compassion did not mean accepting everything.

Saving a life did not require approving how that life was lived.

“You’re right.”

Roman seemed surprised.

“Don’t get used to hearing that.”

“I won’t.”

Dawn had begun softening the windows.

The storm was ending.

Sheree looked toward Marcus’s recorder.

“Take me somewhere.”

Roman frowned.

“Where?”

“The alley.”

At 6:21 a.m., they stood behind Sheree’s apartment building.

Fresh snow covered everything.