The Shadow Gate

Thirty minutes later, Roman’s convoy of three black sedans pulled up outside Elena’s private residence in an upscale residential enclave near Lake Michigan.

Instead of knocking, Roman vaulted from his car, marched up the stone steps, and slammed his shoulder against the heavy oak front door with enough force to splinter the deadbolt.

The door crashed inward.

Elena stood at the top of the grand staircase, wrapped in a silk bathrobe, holding a cup of tea as if she had been expecting him all night.

“You break my door, little brother, and you wake the baby,” Elena said calmly, her voice dripping with disdain.

Roman stormed up the stairs, stopping two feet from her.

“Where is she, Elena?”

“Safe,” his sister replied without flinching. “Far away from your mistresses, your lies, and your arrogant assumption that any woman would spend her postpartum bleeding waiting for you to finish playing king of Milwaukee.”

“She is my wife!” Roman shouted, his control finally snapping.

“No,” Elena corrected, stepping closer and poking him hard in the chest with a single finger. “She was your wife. Until you decided that celebrating a side-piece’s birthday was more important than standing by the woman who gave you a daughter. You lost her, Roman. And for once in your miserable life, all your money and all your guns aren't going to buy her back.”