Chapter 4 - The Coastal Bookstore
The gray morning fog hung heavy over the harbor of Port Townsend, smelling of salt water, pine trees, and damp asphalt.
Roman sat in the passenger seat of a nondescript black Suburban, parked half a block away from a charming brick building with dark green trim.
A hand-painted wooden sign hung above the entrance, reading The Maritime Page & Print, swinging gently in the ocean breeze.
Through the large bay windows, the warm, golden light of the shop cut through the dreary gloom of the Pacific Northwest morning.
It was exactly 8:45 AM, fifteen minutes before the store officially opened its doors to the quiet community of locals and tourists.
Roman watched motionless as a figure moved across the interior of the shop, arranging stacks of leather-bound books on a central display table.
It was her.
Even through the distance and the fog-curtained glass, Roman’s entire body reacted to the sight of her like a physical shockwave.
She moved with the same effortless grace that used to mesmerize him when she paced the hardwood floors of his penthouse study.
She stopped by the front window, holding a steaming mug of tea in both hands as she looked out at the falling rain.
For three agonizing minutes, she stood only fifty feet away from him, completely unaware that the ghost of her past was watching her breathe.
Her face was serene, but there was a faint, lingering sadness around her eyes that hadn't been there eight months ago.
Roman felt the familiar, crushing weight of guilt settle squarely onto his chest, constricting his lungs until every breath burned.
He had inflicted that wound on her, he had stamped that quiet sorrow into her eyes to save her from a sniper's bullet.
“The perimeter is clean,” Nikolai reported from the driver’s seat, his eyes scanning the quiet street and the parked fishing trucks nearby.
“No surveillance, no suspicious vehicles, and no sign that anyone from the Midwest has tracked her to this grid.”
Roman unbuckled his seatbelt, his hand resting on the door handle as he prepared to cross the threshold between his world and hers.
“Stay in the vehicle, Nikolai, and keep the engine running,” Roman instructed, his voice lower and hoarser than usual.
“If she runs, you let her run; no one restricts her movements, no one touches her, and no one speaks to her except me.”
He pushed the heavy door open, stepping out into the cold, drizzling rain without bothering to grab an umbrella from the back seat.
He smoothed the lapels of his dark wool overcoat, his eyes locking onto the brass door handle of the bookstore like a target.
May you like
Every instinct that had made him a feared syndicate boss suddenly felt utterly useless as he walked across the wet street toward her sanctuary.
He was not walking into a boardroom to negotiate millions; he was walking into a quiet room to face the judgment of the only woman he loved.
