Chapter 3 - The King of Shadows
The tap of Roman Vale’s custom Italian leather shoes against the marble was the only sound left in Bellweather House.
Roman was forty-one years old, tall, broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Unlike the rest of the men in the room dressed in stiff black bowties, Roman wore an all-black bespoke three-piece suit without a tie, his unbuttoned collar revealing a faint glimpse of an old scar along his collarbone.
His face was sculpted from granite, his dark eyes terrifyingly calm.
In this city, politicians thought they ran the government, and bankers thought they owned the economy. But everyone knew that Roman Vale held the strings to both. His conglomerate, Vale Meridian, held the ports, the private transit lines, and the deep financial reserves that nobody dared audit. He was an apex predator who rarely attended social functions—and when he did, blood usually followed.
Grant Holloway stood frozen like a deer caught in high beams.
His cruel sneer vanished, replaced by an oily, panicked sweat that broke out along his hairline. He quickly lowered his pointing finger, desperately trying to paste on a charming smile as Roman approached with slow, measured precision.
"Mr. Vale..." Grant stammered, his voice rising an octave. He took a hasty step back from Claire, suddenly aware of how vulgar he looked. "I... I apologize for the scene. My former associate here caused a bit of a disturbance. I didn’t realize you were watching, sir."
Roman didn't glance at Grant. He didn't even acknowledge the man's outstretched hand.
Instead, Roman’s icy gaze drifted down to the puddle of red wine soaking into Claire’s ivory gown, then up to the faint bruise forming on her forearm where Grant had grabbed her moments earlier.
When Roman finally spoke, his voice was a low, velvet rumble that chilled the room to sub-zero temperatures.
"You speak to her with very little respect, Mr. Holloway."
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