The metaphorical doors are slamming shut and he can practically hear them now, that stereotypical iron clang of the officers' futures getting sheared off, shut down, the key twisted in the lock. As chaos explodes around them and they each put up their little rebellions, Roman remains an island at the heart of it all—looking outwardly peaceable, stoic even, meanwhile his emotions are a seething ocean beneath that steel-jawed surface.
There's a flash of instinctive anger when he looks at Teagan, seeing the patrolmen blocking her off from Sonny before she kills him. The patches around them are barely-restrained violence. There's so much to absorb in these minutes, his head reeling: Rome files it all away, watching the details as if he's taking notes, jotting it down for future analysis, and to examine this gaping wound of betrayal when he can. When he has the time, and the concentration.
But there's one last thing. One last shred of comfort he can offer, even as their king dissolves into hysterics like a wounded animal, and Roman looks at his brother instead. His own flesh and blood. They all call each other brother, and his heart aches deep to see Rodeo and Sarge and Bishop and Sonny and all flat on the ground, but it isn't the same as Vic. So Roman meets Viktor's eye, and he says loud enough for all of the officers to hear: "We'll look after 'em."
It's a promise. Not just to look after the Dog Park, but to do every last goddamned thing, wring every last piece of marrow from his bones, in order to get them out. Because it can't end like this.