by Bethany-Kris
Right.
Fuck.
Sometimes, he didn’t think shit through. At the same time, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Demyan continued despite Roman’s silence in the row behind him, saying, “Your mother would have seen it if I didn’t find it first.”
Shame.
“She would have survived the horror.”
His twisted smirk only earned a shake of Demyan’s head, and nothing more. Cellophane. That’s what he was to his papa. Transparent to a fault.
Roman often wondered how Demyan did it—how he unravelled his son with barely any effort at all no matter how tightly he wore this suit of chaos.
Even as a child, Roman was aware of the significance of his position; the unique relationship he shared with his father that few could understand. They couldn’t be only father and son when they were also a pakhan and a vor. He didn’t know if it was equally strange for Demyan to not only train and punish his son, but to also have to love him because he was his own blood.
But it had certainly shaped the way Roman perceived the world around him, and the relationships he chose to have inside of it.
Demyan clicked his tongue, his gaze darting back to the windows like he was over the moment of unsurprising disappointment, and already moving on. “You’re losing your touch, Roman. The least you can do for your mother’s sake is clean up the evidence.”
“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do. She sees everything, she knows everything,” Roman replied.
His father breathed in deeply and nodded. “Trust me, son, I know that very well.” Then, Demyan grinned indulgently—like a vision of his wife had filled his brain, and he was blown away somewhere else. It didn’t last long before the sharp, unapproving stare flicked back his way. “Back to you, though.”
Roman’s jaw clenched. His father tended to stay out of his habits, so why was he mentioning it now? Besides, it wasn’t like the drug-use was an actual problem for him. Certainly not something he couldn’t keep under control. Sometimes, he would end up going weeks without touching it. Then, something would pull him in again—usually boredom.
Shocker.
The Prince of Brighton Beach had very little else to do when he wasn’t boosting cars. How many secret raves could he go to? He started when he was barely sixteen. It had been over eleven years by now that he was living this life he made, stacking his own money. His nickname—dubbed by the reporters who had the balls to put his name to paper—of Little Odessa’s Devil hadn’t come out of nowhere.
He had never needed his father or the bratva to pay for his indulgences, he made his name in the streets before they could do it for him, so what gave Demyan the authority to call him out on anything?
Most importantly, and the one fact his father should have cared most about—Roman never got in the kind of shit he couldn’t get out of. It was the only rule he made an attempt to follow. He had all the cops he needed under his belt. Nobody was going to point a finger at his dad; their corrupt control of New York had spanned decades.
The Avdonins hadn’t been built overnight.
So, what was the fucking problem?
“You’re stewing in your own rage, Roman,” Demyan murmured, his tone softening just enough to remind him that more often than not, this man was his father before anything else. “There has to be a reason why. Is there something you want to tell me?”
There he went.
Again.
Reading his mind like an open book.
“We usually keep out of each other’s shit, don’t we?” Roman asked, determined to keep his tone calm even though the cocaine made that really hard.
“I need you fully present today, son.”
“What do you think I’m doing here, then?”
Demyan shook his head again, and nothing else. Christ, that aggravated Roman even more, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Not that it mattered. The conversation was over because they were already pulling up to the side of the road.
The Avdonins had selected the meeting spot. An eatery run by them, so it would be an environment they could control. As Roman shifted in his seat to ready for when his father chose to exit, more cars pulled up around them. A half a dozen, and then more soon after, with the same opaque windows as theirs.
Everyone had arrived, it seemed.
Right on time.
Roman wanted to say more to his father, but the boss was already stepping out of the car. Cool, calm, collected, and ready to handle his business. He wished he could say the same.
It had never served him well to leave anything unfinished—especially not with Demyan—and the conversation had left him with a bitter taste in the mouth.
Or shit ...
Maybe that was still the cocaine.
TWO
Roman’s eyes fixed on Anastasia’s long legs as she sat beside him, her perfectly slender thighs crossed over each other. The smoke from his cigarette curled and swirled around his fingers when he gestured her way, and she passed him a smile. A smile that told him many things—one, that she was bored of this scene, and two, that she enjoyed the way he looked at her.
She was a paid whore.
Added to the scenery.
Just like the other women who dotted the restaurant’s floor. Women the other men of the bratva had brought along with them to either show off, or entice someone for one reason or another. Games were constantly in play, and Roman didn’t pretend like he cared to understand or indulge in any of them.
Dressed to the nines; their faces caked with makeup and in clothes that cost just a little less than their boob jobs—the women added to the entertainment while the men discussed important business. And every single one of them knew they were here because they weren’t good enough to actually be wives. There wouldn’t be sparkling rings on their fingers. No mansions behind gates and little babies to soak their affection and attention on while their husbands did ... whatever they wanted to do.
None, that was, except his mother, Claire.
His father had arranged for a separate car to transport Claire to the venue, some time after everyone else had settled down. Some might consider it a huge disrespect to Claire that she was invited where no other wife of important men in the criminal underworld would go. Like it meant she wasn’t good enough, either. His mother once told him she didn’t care what people thought about where or with whom she spent her time. He believed her.
Roman gazed at his mother across the floor. Claire Avdonin, Irish enough to color her up, defined herself in ways others didn’t. He figured, some of his personality had definitely been formed by that, even if he took it to an extreme. Her class, style, and natural warmth was unparalleled by everyone she met—no one compared. Not another man’s wife, not passers on the street, and certainly not any of the other women here. She was the kind of woman who was born to stand beside the man she did. Except when asked, she liked to say it had been learned. Nonetheless, her very nature made her a perfect hostess for the dinner that had been able to immediately make everyone feel comfortable in their surroundings.
These were rival, criminal bosses ... and their men. Important men from all sides, really. Loud as a habit. Difficult by nature. Dominant in their power.
Yet, their chauvinistic, tattooed, crass selves melted into smiling, softer spoken gentlemen when Claire came around with her high-voltage smile, and her melodic, kind voice. She didn’t intrude, was a sight to see, she never asked questions, and people trusted her.
She set them off guard.
Every single time.
If nothing else, Roman had to hand it to his father for selecting the right woman to have by his side.
His mother looked at him across the room like she sensed he was watching her. She smiled at him, quick and fleeting, and he gave her a nod in response. Then, Anastasia’s hand on Roman’s knee brought him quickly back to the table he was sitting at.
This shit was purposeful.
It had to be.
&nbs
p; His father arranged to have him stuck at his current table with these two—maybe to punish him for their earlier conversation, or just because he thought Roman could use a lesson in self-control.
Whatever the reason, he wasn’t thrilled. He didn’t like the idea that his father had arranged for him to be at this table, with a paid whore and Dima Kuznetsov, son of Leonid Kusnetsov. A Vor from the Chicago Bratva, there was something about Dima that rubbed Roman wrong. He didn’t have to know what it was for it to be there—it being there was enough.
Anastasia moved her hand away from Roman’s knee before Dima noticed it there. After all, he was probably the one who paid for her—maybe she was one of his women that he trusted enough to travel, who fucking knew—and it was obvious to Roman that he was trying to establish himself as the bigger man at the table.
Yeah.
It was going to take more than comparing cocks in whatever way Dima felt like it to make Roman even consider weighing whether or not the man was worth the effort. He already knew the answer anyway.
Dima wasn’t.
Insignificant, Dima’s voice was a nuisance at the table. Dragging at the back of his mind, fraying his already taut nerves. The topic at hand would have interested Roman, maybe, if he was just trying to inform him about the business, but he wasn’t.
Anastasia was good at pretending to hang off his every word. Her bright red hair matched the color of her plump lips. The blindingly shiny silver dress also matched her stilettos. She glanced at him from time to time, every chance she got to look away from the man who had an arm around her delicate shoulders.
“But you see, sweetheart, I know where to put my money so I can make more, yes? You get it?” Dima asked, speaking only to Anastasia but loud enough that his other companion at the table was forced to grit his teeth through it.
Roman’s molars were going to crack.
Surely.
He did his best to keep the cocaine buzz going, but that shit was slowly starting to fade. If he didn’t slip away somewhere to get back into the right headspace, nothing good would happen. Except people would notice. More specifically, his father. It almost made him want to do it more, just for the reaction. Maybe that would trigger Demyan in to finishing the conversation he instigated in the car.
He still wasn’t over that.
“You are so smart,” Anastasia said.
A smile curled the corners of her lips as she threw Roman a knowing glance. She was making it too obvious, and yet, it flew under Dima’s radar. He chuckled—the pride thick and clear—while he nodded to her compliment.
Dima winked, saying, “I was born into this business. Multiplying my capital is in my blood, hmm?”
And so is the flesh trade; Roman wanted to add but he chewed on his words—mainly because he didn’t want to direct Dima’s attention to himself. He refused to engage unless required ...
Or provoked.
Anastasia drawled on, her voice sultry in Dima’s ear with praises and compliments that stroked the man’s ego but with just enough suggestive sarcasm to keep Roman mildly amused. Then, he had to go and notice the way she flicked her tongue over her lips.
Yeah, sure, he wouldn’t have minded bending her over a table and having his fill. Sex was sex—he enjoyed feeding the urge—and he didn’t feel very much shame about it.
Never had.
Consenting adults could do whatever the fuck they wanted, as long as it felt good. And hell, even if it didn't.
He just had to like it.
In fact, he imagined getting his fill from Anastasia within yelling distance of Dima—there was no better way to ruin a man’s reputation than fucking his woman—and it seemed like a good idea. Rubbing his hand over his upper lip again, he sniffed.
Across the room, he briefly listened to the conversations passing between his father, and the other bosses at the table. The meeting was turning out to be a success. Demyan was being offered trafficking connections to help grow the network for the Avdonins beyond their current reach. It looked like he would even accept the offer. He would have to be a fool to turn that down.
Roman wondered what Maxim Yazov from Chicago wanted in return, though.
Three bratvas working together in harmony was unheard of, but if they could make it happen, it was better than one working alone. Even Roman knew that.
“I mean they’re all a ripe, young age to listen, you know?” Dima continued.
Jesus Christ.
How was he still talking?
Roman’s irritation bubbled as he was forced to pay attention to what the idiot playing pretend said. Anastasia shifted in her seat, and this was the first time she displayed a reaction to the content of this conversation.
“So, it’s not like they can exactly put up a fight, yeah? We move them quickly between cities. Within a few weeks there’s no trace of them.”
Dima didn’t even try to hide his pleasure at stating that fact. A creep move to Roman. Anastasia threw him another look of discomfort, but he didn’t know what she wanted him to say. Sure, she had to pretend to drool over every word that left Dima’s mouth, but trafficking teenage girls for the sex trade and then bragging about it—was not exactly an easy pill to swallow.
Dima was searching Anastasia’s face to make sure he had made an adequate impression on her, and then he turned to Roman.
“Eight. States, no? Six months and a hundred million dollars,” Dima bragged.
Roman grinned right back. “That all?”
Those were the first words he had spoken in a while. It startled both his companions at the table.
“Did you say something to me?” Dima hissed.
Ah.
Hit a nerve?
It made Roman’s grin grow wider.
“That’s how much I made from three chop shops in New York alone,” he told Dima.
A vein had popped up in the middle of the other man’s forehead, his eyes turning bloodshot-red. Dima wasn’t pleased with that statement.
So?
“Anyone can steal cars and make a few bucks,” Dima shot back.
A little too late for the impact to hurt, though.
“Then, why haven’t you done it yet?”
Anastasia’s stare whipped Roman’s way, her painted-red lips widening like her eyes, but he didn’t care about her.
Roman’s easy counter matched the unwavering stare he leveled on the man. He silently dared Dima to have enough balls to admit he couldn’t make the kind of money Roman did in front of the woman he had paid to stroke his ego and cock. Even in his shame, Roman would have the decency then to offer the man an ounce of respect.
Surprise.
Dima doubled down.
“Because the thrill doesn’t last long enough, yes?” Dima added a short, dark laugh, and turned to Anastasia again when he said, “You steal a car and that’s done. It’s a single payment, one transaction. A girl, well, she can be used again and again. You break a girl, and she’s broken forever. So, what does it matter?”
Anastasia had to force herself to smile with Dima’s gaze still firmly locked on her, but only weakly. It was only her discomfort with the conversation that urged him to stop provoking Dima in to giving even more information about his business that would really unsettle the female at the table.
This shit didn’t get better.
Just bad.
The meeting was still going well. Roman tried to pay attention to what was being said, but he could barely hear them anymore. It sounded like the formalities were over at least. Things had gone smoothly, which meant that nobody would be looking for him anytime soon. He could make a smooth exit ... if he wanted.
He returned Anastasia’s smile when she glanced at him again. Boredom stared back at him. She wished she was somewhere else—anywhere other than within Dima’s breathing distance. Roman wished the same.
Being the Chicago Pakhan’s right-hand man, alongside his own father, Dima was called away for a private conversation with his boss.
Perfect timi
ng.
Dima reluctantly headed away from the table, momentarily glancing back with a narrowed, icy stare loaded for Roman. He stared right back, unchallenged. Anastasia took the opportunity to immediately lean toward him once her companion had been distracted with more important men.
“I heard a rumor about your nickname,” she began.
Oh?
“What did you hear?”
“You’re called Little Odessa’s Devil.”
Roman stubbed the cigarette into a smoky ashtray between them, and met Anastasia’s eyes, smirking all the while. “Do you want to find out why?”
• • •
Marky, despite his earlier warnings, didn’t even bother to hide his incredulous grin when Roman slipped out the back door of the restaurant, with the redhead on his arm. “You’re fucking nuts,” he remarked with a slap to Roman’s back.
“That is exactly what I want you to take care of,” he told Anastasia with a wink.
She threw her head back and laughed. Out of Dima’s view, the woman wasn’t as flighty and ... fake. Although, he was sure those tits of hers were bought and paid for.
The deserted alley at the back of the restaurant worked fine for him and what he planned to do. Roman had made sure he wasn’t going to be noticed by anyone who really mattered when he walked out. The meeting was still in progress, but things had turned more casual amongst the bratva men.
Marky knew exactly what to do without being told. He stood to the side with his back to the wall, keeping watch while Roman busted a nut down Anastasia’s throat.
Anastasia’s tongue danced along the seam of her top lip when Roman grabbed her by the back of her neck, pulling her down to her knees in front of him. A wicked smile spread on her face while she clung to his muscular arm. She liked his rough handling.
He had to do nothing after that, which was fine with him. She was the one who undid his belt and pulled down his pants. His cock throbbed and grew hard at the sight of her red mouth coming dangerously close to the head of his cock with white teeth baring slightly. She opened wide and licked her bottom lip while she stroked him in preparation.
Fuck that.