Chapter 9 – The Intruder
“Lock the doors!” Roman shouted, dropping the phone.
I ran to the back of the kitchen, throwing the heavy deadbolts on the delivery entrance. Roman rushed toward the front of the house to secure the main doors.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Carlo was desperate. He had lost the company, his freedom, and his reputation in a single night. A desperate man with nothing left to lose was the most dangerous kind.
I checked the windows in the pantry, making sure the latches were sealed.
Suddenly, I heard a loud crash from the front hall.
Glass shattering.
“Roman!” I screamed, running out of the kitchen.
I skidded to a halt in the grand foyer.
The glass panel next to the massive oak front door had been smashed. Carlo was standing inside the hall, holding a heavy tire iron. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his designer suit torn and covered in dirt.
Roman was standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, putting himself between Carlo and the hallway that led to Mia’s room.
“It’s over, Carlo,” Roman said, his voice deadly calm. “The police are already on their way.”
“I’m not going to prison!” Carlo yelled, swinging the tire iron wildly. “I spent thirty years building this family’s wealth! I earned it! I won’t let you give it all away to Gabriel’s little bastard!”
“You’ve already been to prison, Carlo,” Roman said coldly.
Carlo froze. The wild, manic energy in his eyes shifted to shock.
“What did you say?” Carlo whispered.
“I know about the crash in 1996,” Roman said, stepping down to the bottom step. “I know my father paid Thomas Walsh to give you his name so you wouldn’t carry a felony record. You’ve been living on borrowed time for thirty years.”
Carlo’s face twisted in rage.
“Your father owed me!” Carlo screamed. “I covered up his messes! I hid the money Samuel was stealing because your father told me to! I earned this empire!”
He lunged at Roman with the tire iron.
Roman ducked, driving a shoulder into Carlo’s chest. The two men crashed onto the marble floor.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I grabbed a heavy bronze candlestick from the hall table and ran toward them.
Carlo kicked Roman hard in the stomach, scrambling to his feet. He raised the tire iron to bring it down on Roman’s head.
I swung the candlestick as hard as I could.
The bronze struck Carlo’s forearm with a sickening crack.
Carlo screamed, dropping the tire iron. He stumbled backward, clutching his broken arm, staring at me with pure hatred.
“You,” he hissed, recognizing me. “The little maid.”
Before he could move, the front doors burst open.
Four police officers rushed in, guns drawn.
“On the ground! Now!”
Carlo didn’t fight this time. He collapsed onto his knees, crying out in pain as the officers pushed him to the marble floor and cuffed him.
Roman slowly sat up, clutching his ribs. He looked at me, breathing heavily.
I dropped the candlestick, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
“Are you okay?” Roman asked, getting to his feet.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, though my knees felt like water.
The police dragged Carlo out of the house. The flashing lights disappeared down the long driveway.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Roman walked over to me. He gently took my shaking hands in his.
“You saved my life, Nora,” he said softly.
“He was going to hurt you,” I said, my voice barely working.
Roman looked down at my hands. His thumb brushed over my knuckles. It was an intimate, grounding touch that made the chaos of the night fade for just a second.
“Go pack your things,” Roman said gently.
I blinked, pulling my hands back. “What?”
“You’re going to the assisted living facility,” Roman said, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. “I’m having my private driver take you right now.”
“Why?” I asked, confused.
Roman reached into his pocket and pulled out the old photograph of my father.
“Because Carlo knew Thomas Walsh’s real name,” Roman said. “And if Carlo was desperate enough to come here… he might have sent someone to silence the only man alive who can prove the 1996 conviction was a fraud.”
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