The private terminal in Chicago was polished steel and glass, quiet in the way money demanded. No crowds. No noise. Just the low hum of engines and the sharp winter air rolling across the tarmac.Roman Blackwood stood at the base of the stairs, coat buttoned neatly, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the jet as it came to a final stop.He didn’t realise how tightly his chest was wound until the cabin door opened.Salima appeared first.She descended with the same composure she always carried—back straight, chin lifted, expression unreadable.Roman smiled immediately, stepping forward.“Mum.”She embraced him firmly, hands pressing into his back as though grounding herself. “You look healthy.”He laughed...