PART 2 : He was the most fearsome man in Chicago
"Nine-oh-two," Roman repeated, his voice cutting through the early morning quiet of the property manager's phone line like a scalpel. "Ensure the keycard is activated immediately. Have the concierge stock the refrigerator. Milk, fresh water, fruit. And get a medical kit up there. Not a standard one—infant supplies. Formula, blankets, whatever a newborn requires."
Marcus, the property manager, didn't ask questions. You didn't ask Roman Calloway why he wanted a luxury corporate suite prepped for an infant at six in the morning unless you wanted to find yourself looking for employment by sunrise. "It will be ready in ten minutes, Mr. Calloway."
Roman ended the call, sliding the device back into his tailored charcoal suit. He turned his gaze back to Davis. "You will accompany me. We are going to move them. If she wakes up and panics, you will stand by the door. Do not crowd her."
"Understood, sir," Davis said, his chest rising with a visible wave of relief.
The two men re-entered the cold, stark concrete of the east stairwell. Roman’s polished leather shoes made no sound this time; he walked with the calculated grace of a predator, though his intent was entirely different. As they reached the third-floor landing, the faint, sweet, metallic scent of hospital antiseptic hit Roman’s senses again.
He stood over the sleeping woman. Up close, the dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises against her pale skin. Her lips were chapped, and her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the gray cardigan protecting her child.
Roman knelt. It was a posture he had not assumed before another human being in over two decades. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently hovering over her shoulder before making contact.
"Wake up," he said softly, though the authority in his tone remained.
The reaction was instantaneous. The woman’s eyes snapped open—a fierce, panicked amber. In a single, fluid movement born of pure survival instinct, she tucked her chin down, shielding the baby with her entire upper body, and kicked outward. The heel of her worn sneaker struck Roman’s shin, but he didn't flinch. He didn't move an inch.
"Get away from him!" she gasped, her voice raw, a ragged tear in the quiet stairwell. She scrambled backward against the cinderblock wall, the crinkled silver emergency blanket screeching under her weight. "Don't touch him!"
"I am not going to touch him," Roman said, keeping his hands visible, palms open. "But you cannot sleep here anymore. This is a corporate building. It is November in Chicago, and the temperature in this stairwell will drop below freezing by nightfall."
The woman’s breath came in frantic, shallow hiccups. She looked past Roman to the imposing figure of Davis standing near the door, then back to Roman. She took in the impeccable suit, the absolute stillness of his demeanor, and the dangerous aura of power that radiated from him. She knew exactly who he was, or at least, what kind of man he was.
"I'm not begging," she whispered, her voice trembling but laced with a stubborn, fierce pride. "We’ll leave. Just... let me get his blanket wrapped right. We’ll leave."
She began to struggle to her feet, but her body betrayed her. The hospital bracelet on her wrist flashed white against her pale skin. She groaned, a low, agonizing sound, as her knees buckled under the weight of her recent labor. She would have collapsed back onto the hard concrete if Roman hadn't lunged forward, catching her by the upper arms.
The contact sent a jolt through both of them. She was burning with a low fever, her muscles shaking from sheer exhaustion.
"You are not going anywhere," Roman said, his voice dropping an octave, leaving no room for argument. "You are going to Room 902. There is a bed, food, and heat. You will stay there until I decide otherwise."
She stared at him, tears finally spilling over her lashes, tracing clean lines through the dust on her cheeks. "Why?" she whispered. "People like you don't do things like this for free. What do you want from me?"
Roman looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face of the infant peeking out from the gray cardigan. The baby had a small tuft of dark hair, just like the mother, and was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the storm surrounding them.
"My mother once asked a man that same question in a transit station," Roman said, his voice cold and flat, yet carrying a weight that made the woman freeze. "He didn't give her a room. He took her last ten dollars and left us in the snow. I am simply balancing the ledger. Move."
He didn't wait for her consent. Roman gently but firmly lifted her, supporting her weight against his side while ensuring her arms remained locked around the newborn. Davis stepped forward, gathering the crinkled silver blanket and opening the heavy steel door.
As they walked out into the warm, carpeted hallway of the residential wing on the ninth floor, the woman’s head rolled against Roman’s shoulder. She was fading fast, her body finally shutting down after four days of hyper-vigilance in a concrete tomb.
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"My name is Elena," she murmured, her eyes half-closed as Roman used his master keycard to open the door to Room 902. "And his name... his name is Leo. Please... don't let them find us."
Before Roman could ask who they were, Elena went completely limp in his arms.
