by Bethany-Kris
Right.
Demyan and his lines.
Roman didn’t want to give his grandfather the impression that he was desperate to get out, but he stifled the urge to ask when he would be released, or even ... when a lawyer would show up on his behalf. He opted to keep his damn mouth shut. This was turning out to be the perfect place for him to ride out the storm of withdrawal.
Considering everything.
Anton was already moving to the cell door, tapping on it lightly with his wedding ring before he looked over his shoulder at his grandson again.
“Good talk, Grandpapa.” Roman managed a sardonic smile through the sweat dripping down the sides of his face, and the muscles screaming in pain. “Tell my ma I’m fine. Nothing else.”
Anton nodded once, and he knew his grandfather would keep his word on the news he delivered to Claire. As he strolled out of the cell, he called over his shoulder, “But someone should have told you to get your shit together a long time ago, Roman.”
The cell door closed behind him, and he was alone.
Again.
Yeah.
“Yeah, someone should have given a shit,” he murmured to himself.
• • •
His stay didn’t even last a week. Two days after his grandfather’s visit, and Roman was led out of his cell, and freed to the streets. No explanation, and he knew better than to ask questions. The forces of the Avdonin Bratva, connections constantly working behind the scenes, had undoubtedly made it happen. There were a few perks to being who he was.
Even if he sacrificed for it.
A black car with the dark tinted windows, and a bull with a door already held open for him to slip into the backseat waited outside the jail for him. Roman squinted up at the sun, letting the warmth spread over on his face. At least, the shaking was gone. He still felt a gut-deep shudder from time to time, a clawing, irresistible urge to make a run for it.
To go find Marky.
A few more days of resistance and that whispering voice of cocaine still slipping through his veins would hopefully be gone, too.
Roman followed the man who was there to lead him to the car, saying nothing. Not that the bull minded—he didn’t speak, either. He didn’t know who he was but figured he was sent by Demyan to collect him. At one point, he’d stopped paying attention to all the men who surrounded his father. It was all a sea of fucking same-faced soldiers, anyway. Guys who weren’t going anywhere but right where they already were at the end of the day. It was easier if he didn’t make friends with people who eventually came to realize it was the men like him who kept them neck-down on the ground.
Under their boots.
In the car, he sank down in the seat. A few years ago, when conversation still flowed easily between his mother and him, she would have admonished him for sitting like that. Like a cranky teenager.
The scenes of the city passed him by—familiar streets he’d called home forever—and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would miss this place if he ever had to leave. As much as he loved New York, and his family, he hated it all, too.
Too much.
Roman was surprised to find his mother waiting at the door as he took the steps up to the house two at a time. The bulls who guarded the estate had their attention turned to him. The Prince was back, and he’d brought trouble with him.
Everywhere he went.
Claire stood in front of him—mixed emotions marred her face. The flickering anger dancing over her trembling lips was fleeting, though, because the sadness was just as quick to come in its place. His mother had never raised a hand to him—wouldn’t. She didn’t hit her children, but he wondered if she wanted to right then. He would have deserved it.
Then, she smiled.
Soft, and sweet.
The relief taunted him. He would never have admitted that he was happy to see her, too. As a kid he remembered being affectionate, clinging to his mother’s legs and gazing up at his father with pride. He laughed freely, and didn’t worry about what people wanted from him. Life’s experiences had knocked that bullshit out of him eventually.
“Roman.”
She spoke in her trademark quiet voice, leaning forward to put her arms around him. He let her hug him—that was as far he was going to allow it to go because anything more felt like a betrayal to her when he was still the cause of her pain. He breathed in his mother’s familiar scent, allowing himself a sense of comfort. When she pulled away, her gaze searched his six-foot-five-inch frame.
Looking for marks?
Bruises, maybe.
Some sign of jail.
Who knew?
He was glad she didn’t have to see him in the state that his grandfather found him a few days ago. There were conversations he never wanted to have with his mother, and the state of his addiction was high on that list.
“Your sister was about to fly down all the way from Russia,” she said, still holding him by his shoulders at arm’s length.
“Why would she do something as stupid as that?”
“Because she cares about you and loves you. She thought she would have been able to help. Or ... do something—you know how she is.”
Yeah, he knew exactly how his sister was. Vera would get there, end up making a huge fuss, and meddle in every aspect of his life where she wasn’t supposed to interfere. He loved Vera, probably much more than she knew, but she was who she was. She took her big sister role too seriously considering their ages. He was glad she didn’t turn up at the jail for his little stint. A flight from Russia wasn’t worth that.
Roman pulled away from his mother, and headed into the house. The last thing he needed was her sympathy or probing when it wouldn’t do anything for his situation, and any answers she managed to pull from him would only leave her feeling far worse.
Silence worked better.
Even if it hurt.
In the foyer, the booming voice of the Yazov Pakhan, Maxim, carried down the winding staircase. He recognized the voice, not only from the restaurant meeting, but because he had heard it a handful of times in the past. The man’s distant, but known and very real, friendship with Demyan afforded Roman the unfortunate luxury of knowing the man’s tone on the spot.
It instantly irritated him. He may not have reacted that way under any other circumstance, but he couldn't quite say that considering his recent stint in jail because of one of Maxim’s fucking men.
Well.
Roman had a big hand in that, too.
Not that it mattered.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Roman asked his mother, his sharp tone making her wince. He really didn’t expect an answer, and instead of waiting for one, followed the source of the voice. It led him to his father’s office upstairs.
Claire stayed right on his heels. “Roman ... leave them be. Calm down a bit before—”
He ignored his mother, hot anger spiraling into his gut as he charged through the doors of the office to find his father in friendly conversation with the boss of the Chicago Bratva. Both men sat with swirling bourbons in their crystal glasses in each of his father’s favorite leather bucket chairs. The ones Demyan liked placed directly in front of the bay windows so that he had a view of the birds in the spring and summer months. Both men turned his way at the abrupt—and rude, although he didn’t give a damn—entrance.
“Son,” was all Demyan remarked.
His expression remained undecipherable.
Blank like paper.
Roman couldn’t tell if his father was happy to see him or not as he stepped further into the room. He didn’t turn to make sure his mother was gone. She knew to disappear and not interfere when vory were in the house, but especially when they were in his father’s office. Claire had been playing this game for far longer than even Roman. Her voice was loud in private, but she knew when that time was, too.
Maxim Yazov sat staring at him, resignation pulling his face in a more somber expression—the kind of look an uncle might give their favorite nephew for b
reaking a vase. Roman knew the man from his childhood, but he wouldn’t go as far to say he held real affection for the man in the same way he might for his uncle, Koldan, the boss of the Jersey Bratva. As far as he remembered—Demyan and Maxim kept a friendship, but not a particularly close one. They had a decent working relationship, and Roman was brought up to respect Maxim because of it, but also as a man who had earned his rank in the bratva. A boss.
But he wasn’t Roman’s boss.
That’s what counted today. One of his men had set him up, and sent him to jail over a car. Petty bullshit, really. None of his business with the car boost would really affect business between the organizations. Brigadiers fought amongst themselves all the time, especially between bratvas, and as long as it didn’t hurt any withstanding deals or cross some obvious line, then nobody gave a shit.
What made him different?
Roman couldn’t be sure if Maxim had a role to play in his arrest, too. He intended on finding out, though.
“Do you want to explain to me—”
Demyan arched a brow, and the second his mouth opened, Roman’s words came to a halt when his father said, “The first words out of your mouth should be thank you and nothing else, Roman.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maxim here,” Demyan explained, a hand waving in the direction of the quiet man, “pulled some strings, and got you out of the doghouse way sooner than we would have managed.”
Roman didn’t even blink. “I could have waited it out—let’s not pretend like they were going to press charges that actually fucking stuck. Name a brigadier you know that wants his name on a police record as the victim. I was fine.”
His father gave him that look—one that spoke volumes. A frequent, silent order that had accompanied him since childhood, and it pissed him off even more because of it. Be grateful, Roman, it said.
For what?
Getting clean on a jailhouse floor?
Unneeded police attention on his work?
Right.
Grateful.
Roman knew what was expected of him, and only because he didn’t care to make the situation more difficult for himself than it needed to be, he turned to Maxim and gave him a nod. That was as far as he was going to go. The words thank you would not be pried from his living, breathing mouth.
“You wouldn’t have been fine,” Demyan noted, then, turning to Maxim with a nod of his own. “As I’ve said already, your help is appreciated, of course.”
Roman almost flinched at that statement.
Anton would never.
Demyan was stooping—bending to another man in a position of power, even if it was in private. That went against everything he had ever known about his father, and what the man taught him. Roman seriously doubted the Yazovs had anything that interested his father enough to essentially put him on his knees—even hypothetically.
So, why?
What was he trying to prove?
Apparently, Demyan wanted to prove something to Roman if his next words were any indication. “Maybe there is some way that my son can explain his actions. For once, I would enjoy hearing that.”
His gaze turned on Roman, cold but patient.
Waiting.
So did Maxim’s.
He had fucking news for them—not that they would like it. The two were going to keep waiting for something Roman didn’t have. Or rather, something he didn’t plan to give at all. Everyone in the room knew exactly what—and why—it had happened.
This was all a charade.
He refused to play into it.
“I’m not going to make excuses for myself,” Roman said simply.
Maxim sat forward on the edge of his seat, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself from watching the train wreck happen right in front of his face. Demyan drummed his fingers on the armchair, the line of his jaw tensing in a way that meant he was losing his calm demeanor, and fast.
The only noise?
Ice cubes swirling in his father’s glass.
What else did he expect from Roman? Groveling? Going down on his knees and fucking apologizing to this man like he was the lesser between them?
Absolutely not.
When Demyan glanced at Maxim once more, a look was exchanged between the two that said there was something else at play. Something he wasn’t privy to, and he didn’t like that. It immediately put him on edge sharper than he could handle. He should have known his father wasn’t going to just let his actions go with a half-assed non-apology.
This wasn’t new for Roman.
It was just getting old.
“Fine, then if my son doesn’t feel like humbling himself, it only seems fair to allow you to do so, old friend,” Demyan said, keeping his head tilted toward Maxim though his gaze rammed hard into Roman. “How can we repay you for this unfortunate incident?”
At that question, he faced Maxim directly and ignored Roman like he wasn’t even in the room.
“Damages to the car, yes?”
“Of course.”
“What fucking damages?” Roman snarled.
His father and Maxim continued as if he wasn’t in the room.
Still.
“And Dima wants—”
Roman interrupted that bullshit from Maxim before it went any further. “I am not apologizing to him. You’ll rip every bone from my body before I’ll say fuck all to that piece of shit.”
“That can be arranged,” Maxim murmured.
He stared back at the man, unaffected.
So be it.
The thing people didn’t realize about Roman?
He’d die on his hills.
Every fucking one of them.
His father tossed a warning look his way—what was that supposed to do?
Roman clenched his fists at his sides, noticing the throb behind his eyes where it was beginning to feel like his brain was contracting. Rage was a real problem he had never quite learned how to handle—why would he when letting it free felt so much better? He’d always been big on shit that felt good.
Right then, there were so many things in the room he would have loved to pick up and break. Hurricane Roman, his grandmama used to call him when he was younger and threw an unholy fit. If he ever had a chance to trash this room ...
This was where his father exercised all his power—that authority Roman had grown to despise. Where he was constantly reminded of the fact that he was not like Demyan.
Not like Anton.
“He doesn’t have to apologize to Dima, no, I have a better idea, anyway.” Maxim spoke in a cool voice, like he knew where this conversation was headed from the moment he began. Unsurprisingly, Roman bet he did, too. “From what I hear, your chop shops are ... quite lucrative, yes?”
What does that fucking have anything to do with you?
His shops, the car theft ring ... that business he had built from the ground up, starting when he was still practically a fucking kid, was sacred to him in ways he couldn’t explain. He’d done that.
It was his.
Fuck anyone who assumed differently, or thought they could take it from him.
He dared them to try.
If only Roman felt like letting his thoughts slip out of his mouth would do him good then he might consider it, but he was well aware that wasn’t the case. Maybe it was the absence of the coke in his veins that made him feel less invincible, or even his recent stint in jail. One way or another, he knew his better option at the moment was to shut the fuck up until he understood what was really going on.
Maxim continued speaking to the room, unconcerned about Roman’s silence. “I want the car theft scheme moved to Chicago. We can hire a new crew—or you can bring your own from here, no?—and we’ll do whatever it takes to make it as successful as it has been here. Eventually—perhaps—I’ll consider allowing you to return to your business here if things are beneficial on my side of things there.”
Demyan glanced at his son, his silent anger vibrating through the room; the unspoken words
he wouldn’t say out loud were still clear to his son. Do you see what you have done? You did this to yourself.
Was he hearing this correctly?
Maxim Yazov wanted his own chop shop ring in Illinois, run exactly the way Roman had been running it here?
Why—he kept coming back to that goddamn question. He bet there were a handful of guys in Maxim’s Bratva that were perfectly capable of running a boosting scheme. Maybe they wouldn’t make as much money as Roman could—at least, not right away—but that was only because he had a ready set of connections to get shit off the ground. And he worked years for that.
The very fact he’d built his business the way he had allowed him a sort of freedom within the Avdonin Bratva that many other brigadiers didn’t have. Roman did it all himself.
For what, now?
Chicago’s benefit?
It certainly wouldn’t be like New York, he bet.
“But you know, Maxim, I’ve had no role in Roman’s work,” Demyan murmured around the rim of his glass before taking a large gulp. Setting the glass back down to the table between the two men, he added, “Technically, he’s not had to answer to or for anyone—he makes his money, pays his dues, and doesn’t rely heavily on the direction—or correction—of his boss. It’s ... worked better that way, you know?”
The rage coursing through Roman rendered him stone-still. He didn’t expect Maxim to have the balls to suggest something like this to his father—or for his father to react in this way. Another bratva was suggesting stealing his son’s business from right under his feet. So what, when Maxim was happy his scheme was up and running, making good money, then he’d boot Roman back to New York with a lesson well-learned?
Sounded like bullshit.
“That’s what I was told, yes,” Maxim said, nodding in agreement. “Which means it will have to be Roman running the show, but I don’t mind. As long as the money is worth it, and he doesn’t make me regret it.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
Demyan shrugged, unfazed by his son’s outburst. “Move to Chicago—get acquainted with a new scene? Sounds like it might be exactly what you need to ... start out clean. If you hear what I’m saying, I mean.”
He heard him perfectly well, actually.