Chapter 7 - THE NURSERY IN THE EAST WING
Roman listened to her words, his sharp mind rapidly processing the financial and legal reality of what she was describing. She hadn't just survived; she had quietly outmaneuvered his entire legal team, reclaimed a multi-million-dollar land asset, and turned a ruined estate into an impenetrable, self-sustaining fortress.
"And the children?" Roman asked, his voice raspy. "Is the timber trust funding a sanctuary for street orphans, or did you find time between land negotiations to take a lover?"
Evelyn’s blue eyes flashed with a sudden, razor-sharp fury that made Roman take half a step back.
"Do not insult me, Roman," Evelyn spat out, her voice dropping its calm composure for a fleeting second. "I am not you. I do not betray my vows when things become difficult."
She turned on her heel and began ascending the grand walnut staircase, her soft steps echoing gently in the high-ceilinged hall.
"If you want to know whose children they are, come upstairs and see for yourself," she called back over her shoulder.
Roman hesitated for a fraction of a second before following her up the stairs. His broad frame moved with silent, lethal grace, his eyes scanning the upper gallery. The second floor—once a dark, terrifying stretch of rotted carpets and dripping ceilings—was transformed into a warm, brightly lit hallway lined with fresh cream paint, framed botanical prints, and soft runners.
Evelyn walked down the east wing corridor, stopping outside a heavy oak double door that had been painted a soft, eggshell blue.
She turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.
Roman stepped up behind her, looking over her head into the room.
It was a vast, beautifully restored nursery. Sunlight from the large bay windows had been replaced by the warm amber glow of several small nightlights shaped like stars. Along the far wall sat three small, immaculate wooden cribs and two low twin beds.
In the center of the room sat Martha Ellis, rocking a small baby in her arms while humming a soft lullaby.
Sitting on a soft plush armchair near the window, holding a picture book, was a young woman in her late twenties—pale, dressed in simple clothes, with a look of deep, quiet relief on her face.
Evelyn stepped into the room, reaching out to gently touch the young mother’s shoulder.
"Roman," Evelyn said quietly, turning to face him. "Meet Sarah. Her husband was one of your low-level soldiers in the South Buffalo docks. He was killed eighteen months ago during your territory war with the Moretti family."
Roman’s brow furrowed in confusion. "Moretti?"
"When he died," Evelyn continued, her voice cold and steady, "your organization gave Sarah a single two-thousand-dollar death benefit check and evicted her from her company-owned apartment in the middle of November. She had two toddlers and a newborn baby. She was living in her car behind a gas station when Martha found her."
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Roman stared at the young woman in the chair. The mother looked down at her book, clutching her child slightly tighter, but showing no fear in the presence of the crime boss.
"This isn't just a house, Roman," Evelyn whispered, stepping back out into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind her. "It’s a sanctuary. Over the last two years, I have brought six women and eight children here—families of men who died fighting your wars, families your organization discarded the moment they were no longer useful."
