Roman’s hand touched the side of her waist, then stopped as though asking permission without words.

Vivien pulled him closer.

The kiss deepened.

And then Roman broke away.

Breathing hard.

Forehead against hers.

“We shouldn’t.”

She almost laughed.

“That is four years late.”

“I need to tell you something.”

Her stomach sank.

Of course.

There was always something.

“What?”

Roman stepped back.

The warmth vanished from the space between them.

He looked toward the folder.

Not the federal one.

Another.

Smaller.

Brown leather.

Vivien had not noticed it beneath the black documents.

Roman picked it up.

His hands were steady.

His face wasn’t.

“Before you decide anything about me,” he said, “you need to know why I hired you.”

Vivien stared.

“I applied.”

“Yes.”

“I interviewed with you twice.”

“Yes.”

“You told me I was arrogant.”

“You told me I was emotionally constipated.”

“You were.”

“I still am.”

“Roman.”

He stopped.

Then placed the brown folder in her hands.

Her name was written across the front.

VIVIEN HARTWELL.

But the handwriting was old.

Faded.

Not Roman’s.

Her skin went cold.

She opened it.

The first photograph showed her father.

Gabriel Hartwell.

Alive.

Fifteen years younger than the man she remembered burying.

Standing outside a courthouse.

Beside him stood a nineteen-year-old Roman Devo.

Vivien stopped breathing.

She looked up.

Roman’s eyes were wet.

Not crying.

Not yet.

“What is this?”

He did not answer quickly enough.

“What is this?”

“Your father knew mine.”

Vivien stepped backward.

“No.”

“Vivien—”

“My father was an accountant.”

“Yes.”

“He worked for manufacturing companies.”

“Sometimes.”

She looked at the photograph again.

Behind them was another man.

Roman’s father.

Vittorio Devo.

Vivien knew the face from old newspaper clippings.

“He worked for your family?”

“For six years.”

“No.”

“He found things.”

“No.”

“Transactions. Payments. Names.”

“No.”

“Vivien.”

“My father died in a car accident.”

Roman closed his eyes.

And that was when she knew.

The room tilted.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Vivien—”

“Don’t.”

She dropped the folder.

Photographs scattered across the wooden floor.

One landed faceup.

Her father.

Blood on his shirt.

Roman beside him.

Young.

Terrified.

Vivien stared.

“What happened?”

Roman said nothing.

She looked at him.

“What happened to my father?”

Roman’s answer came almost inaudibly.

“My family killed him.”

PART 3 — THE PROMISE

Vivien did not cry.

Not immediately.

Grief that old did not behave like new grief.

New grief screamed.

Old grief went quiet.

It sat down inside the body and recognized the furniture.

She stared at Roman.

“My father died when I was eighteen.”

“I know.”

“He was driving home from Milwaukee.”

“No.”

“His car went through a barrier.”

“No.”

“The police—”

“Were paid.”

Vivien slapped him.

The sound cracked through the little house.

Roman did not move.

Did not touch his face.

Did not defend himself.

Vivien’s hand burned.

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

“For four years.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me talk about him.”

“Yes.”

“You came to my mother’s fundraiser.”

“Yes.”

“You stood beside his photograph.”

Roman’s eyes closed.

“Yes.”

She hit his chest with both hands.

Not hard.

Not really.

“You bastard.”

He absorbed it.

“You let me fall in love with you.”

His face broke.

“I tried not to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying you know!”

Roman stepped back.

Vivien turned away.

Her whole body shook now.

“Did you kill him?”

Silence.

She looked over her shoulder.

Roman’s face had gone pale.

“Answer me.”

“No.”

“Did you order it?”

“No.”

“Were you there?”

Roman looked at the photograph on the floor.

“After.”

“After what?”

“After they shot him.”

Vivien couldn’t breathe.

Roman spoke slowly.

“My father discovered Gabriel had copied financial records. He believed your father intended to testify.”

“He would have.”

“Yes.”

Something almost like pride entered Roman’s voice.

“He was braver than anyone in our house.”

Vivien wiped her face.

“What did you do?”

“I overheard the order.”

Roman looked nineteen again for a moment.

Too young.

Too late.

“I called him.”

Vivien stared.

“What?”

“I warned him.”

Roman swallowed.

“I told him not to go home. I told him to drive north and leave the car somewhere public.”

Her heart hammered.

“He asked why.”

Roman looked at her.

“I told him because my father was going to kill him.”

Rain slid down the glass.

“Did he believe you?”

“Eventually.”

“What happened?”

“My uncle intercepted him.”

“Vittorio’s brother?”

“Carlo.”

Vivien knew the name.

Carlo Devo had died twelve years ago.

Officially from a hunting accident.

Her skin prickled.

“Roman.”

“I followed them.”

“You were nineteen.”

“Yes.”

“You followed armed men?”

“I was stupid.”

“You were trying to save him.”

“I failed.”

His voice sharpened for the first time.

“I was twenty minutes behind.”

Vivien stopped moving.

Roman stared at the floor.

“I found his car near an abandoned quarry.”

His breathing became shallow.

“Your father was still alive.”

Vivien covered her mouth.

Roman continued.

“He had been shot twice.”

Her knees nearly gave way.

“He was conscious?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Roman’s face collapsed.

For four years, she had seen this man absorb threats without blinking.

She had watched him negotiate beside corpses.

She had seen him stand bleeding and refuse anesthetic because he wanted answers first.

Now his voice trembled.

“He asked me if you knew how to change a tire.”

Vivien made a broken sound.

A laugh.

A sob.

Something in between.

Roman’s eyes filled.

“I told him I didn’t know.”

“He taught me.”

“I know.”

“Every summer.”

“I know.”

Her hands pressed against her mouth.

Roman looked at the old photograph.

“He kept asking stupid, ordinary questions.”

“Why?”

“Because he knew he was dying.”

Vivien shut her eyes.

“He asked if you were still applying to Northwestern. Whether your mother had repaired the kitchen window. Whether you still hated tomatoes.”

A sob escaped her.

Roman looked at her helplessly.

“He was trying to stay alive by talking about you.”

Vivien sat heavily on the couch.

Roman remained standing.

“He gave me his wallet.”

“No.”

“Your photograph was inside.”

“Roman…”

“He made me look at it.”

Roman’s voice cracked.

“And he said, ‘She gets none of this. Do you understand? Whatever your family is, whatever I was stupid enough to touch, she gets none of it.'”

Vivien cried then.

Silently.

Shoulders shaking.

Roman continued because stopping would have been cowardice.

“He made me promise your mother would be protected.”

Vivien lifted her face.

“My mother’s mortgage.”

Roman said nothing.

Her expression changed.

“The year after Dad died. The bank suddenly renegotiated.”

Roman looked away.

“Roman.”

“Yes.”

“My tuition?”

“A scholarship foundation.”

“Oh my God.”

“I never wanted you to know.”

“You controlled my life.”

“No.”

“You paid for it.”

“Part of it.”

“Without asking.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he died in my arms.”

The sentence silenced everything.

Roman looked at her.

“Your father died looking at your photograph while I promised him you would have a life outside my family’s world.”

Vivien’s voice barely worked.

“And then you hired me.”

Pain crossed his face.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Roman laughed once.

It was a terrible sound.

“Because apparently I am capable of breaking even the promises that matter most.”