Chapter 2 - The Cinnamon Roll and the Ghost
At seven-thirty that morning, Vivien had stood barefoot in Roman’s high-rise kitchen wearing one of his crisp white dress shirts, covered in white flour up to her elbows as she desperately tried to frost a batch of homemade cinnamon rolls. Trying was the operative word. More powdered sugar and cream cheese frosting had ended up smeared across her left cheek and the collar of Roman's shirt than on top of the actual pastries.
Roman had stepped up behind her without a sound, wrapping both arms securely around her soft, warm waist and resting his chin comfortably on her shoulder.
"You’re ruining my breakfast," he had murmured against her neck.
"I own a successful bakery, Roman," she had giggled, leaning back into his chest. "I think I know what I'm doing."
"You’re still ruining breakfast."
Vivien had laughed—that rich, genuine, bell-like laugh that had completely dismantled Roman’s emotional armor the very first time he heard it three years ago in a small Brooklyn diner. It still did. She was thirty-two years old, with unruly dark curls that refused to obey hair ties, striking hazel eyes, and a voluptuous, size-eighteen body that she had spent years being taught by society to apologize for. To Roman, she was gravity itself. The only thing in his violent, chaotic universe that made staying alive worthwhile.
She had turned around in his embrace that morning, looking up at him with those bright, knowing eyes. "You’re nervous."
"I don’t get nervous," Roman had replied automatically, tightening his grip.
"You reorganized the kitchen coffee cups by height."
"They were disorderly."
"You literally threatened a ceramic coffee cup, Roman. It knows what it did."
Vivien had laughed again, but then her expression softened, the humor fading into something profound and tender. She reached up, her thumb tracing the faint scar across his jawline. "Tonight matters to you."
Roman caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You matter to me."
She studied his face, searching for any sign of hesitation. "You know I don’t need a room full of terrifying, heavily armed men watching you prove your devotion."
"I know."
"Then why are we throwing this ridiculous, ostentatious dinner?"
"Because everyone in my world already knows that you are the most important person in it," Roman had said, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its typical steel. "Tonight, I make it official in front of every wolf at the table. No one will ever question your place beside me."
Her eyes had welled with sudden tears. "Roman..."
He had cut her off by kissing her hard on the lips, sealing away any doubts she might have had.
That had been twelve hours ago. Now, she was gone. And the note left beneath his water glass had resurrected a ghost Roman had personally buried six feet under in a unmarked grave outside Atlantic City.
Roman walked out of Bellamy House without waiting for his winter coat, the freezing Manhattan wind hitting his skin like a physical blow.
Leo caught up with him on the granite steps of the sidewalk, his breath pluming white in the chill. "The cars are pulling around now."
"Her phone?" Roman demanded, striding toward the curb.
"Powered off. Signal died somewhere near the bakery."
"The bakery?"
"Closed at seven, like always."
"Her apartment?"
Leo hesitated, his face tightening. "The two men I left watching her building... they aren't answering their radios."
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Roman stopped dead in his tracks. The roar of late-night Manhattan traffic hissed over the wet, salted pavement, but to Roman, the world went completely deaf.
"What did you say?" Roman whispered.
