The Billionaire's Blood Debt

The silence in the kitchen was absolute. The clatter of pots, the hiss of steam, the frantic energy of dinner service—all of it had vanished the second Roman stepped through the doors.

David’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The arrogance that had practically radiated off him moments ago evaporated, leaving behind a pale, trembling shell.

"I asked a question," Roman said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that made the air feel thin.

David swallowed hard. "Mr. Roman. I didn’t… I wasn’t aware you were on the premises. We were told you were indisposed."

"I was." Roman stepped fully into the kitchen. The three men in dark suits fanned out behind him, their hands resting loosely at their sides. "But I’m here now. And I’m looking at an employee’s final paycheck on the floor."

"She was late," David stammered, his eyes darting toward the men, then back to Roman. "Forty-five minutes late, sir. Covered in blood. We have the mayor’s chief of staff in the dining room. I had to maintain the restaurant’s standards."

"Standards." Roman repeated the word slowly. He walked past David and stopped directly in front of me. Up close, I could see the tight lines of pain around his mouth, the slight stiffness in his posture. He was wearing a fresh suit, but his breathing was shallow. He shouldn’t have been walking. He should have been in an ICU.

He bent down. He didn't ask David to do it. He didn't motion to his guards. With a slow, deliberate movement that clearly cost him, Roman picked the white envelope off the wet tile.

He held it out to me.

I didn't take it. My hands were still shaking. "You shouldn't be standing," I whispered.

"Neither should you," he replied quietly. "You’re freezing."

Roman turned back to David. "This restaurant is owned by Vanguard Holdings. I am the majority shareholder of Vanguard Holdings. That means I own the plates, the stoves, the food in the walk-in, and the employment contracts of everyone in this room."

David nodded frantically. "Yes, Mr. Roman. Of course."

"Megan saved my life forty-five minutes ago." Roman’s pale gray eyes locked onto the manager. "She used her own apron to pack a wound that would have bled me out in a garbage-filled alley. She chose to be late to your kitchen so I could keep breathing."

The dishwasher gasped. David took a step back, hitting the stainless-steel prep table. "I didn't know."

"You didn't ask," Roman corrected. He tossed the white envelope onto the prep table. It landed next to a tray of perfectly sliced truffles. "You're fired, David."

"Sir, please—"

"Get out of my kitchen."

David looked around, hoping for a sympathetic face. There were none. He untied his apron, threw it on the counter, and practically ran out the back door.

Roman turned to me. "Your son is sick." It wasn't a question. He had remembered what I babbled to him in the alley to keep him awake.

"An ear infection," I managed to say. "The medicine is at the pharmacy. That's why I needed..." I looked at the envelope.

"You still have a job here," Roman said. "If you want it."

"I do."

"Good. But you're not working tonight." Roman gestured to one of his men. A tall man with scars on his knuckles stepped forward. "Marcus will drive you to the pharmacy. He will pay for the medication. Then he will take you home."

"You don't have to do that," I protested.

"I owe you a life, Megan. Let me buy the antibiotics."

I was too exhausted to argue. I nodded. But as I turned to leave, Roman reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small, heavy silver coin and pressed it into my palm. It was cold, engraved with a wolf’s head.

"Keep this," he said softly. "Don't lose it."