by Bethany-Kris
He just knew to stay out of trouble.
Simple.
“I’m supposed to keep your nose clean, yeah,” Josef commented after some thought.
“Who says I’m not doing that?”
Josef considered that some more, and Roman could sense the weight shifting in his favor a little. “I’ll think of something,” the bull eventually replied.
“Yeah man, just think about it. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Technically.
Roman had a smile on his face as he walked into the office. Genuine fucking delight dared to creep up on him for the first time in two weeks. Finally, he might have the chance to live a little while he was here.
Shit.
He had to make it worth it.
Right?
• • •
“Igor Ivanov, you have heard of him, yes?” Josef spoke.
Roman was just about to get out of the car when the question stopped him. “He’s a Yazov brigadier—why?”
“He owns this place.”
Josef tipped his head towards the club behind them. Right smack in the middle of downtown Chicago, and there were people everywhere. This particular club seemed isolated, though. No long queues snaked out from the front entrance because it was as if everyone knew to stay away. Several bouncers stood at the door staring every passerby down, and that was enough to send any curious people on their way. Fast. Nobody was welcome—quite a vibe.
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” Roman replied.
“Yes, it is for your information so that if you decide you want to make it out of there alive tonight, you will behave yourself.”
Josef’s voice carried enough warning itself without the words, but they simply drove the point home for Roman. They walked together to the door, and the men guarding it stepped aside when they noticed the approaching bull. Without being ordered to do so. Well ...
At least, they had assigned him a man who knew his way around, and would use it.
Roman could already feel the floor vibrating under his feet as they made their way to the inner door. Flashing neon lights first blinded him, and then brightened his vision all at once. The thumping music pulsed in his veins, and he was beginning to realize that when sober, this was as much of a drug as the cocaine. He had been craving ... something. Maybe just a reminder he was still alive and well, and he didn’t even know it.
Josef extended an arm past his shoulder, pushing the door which swung open ahead of Roman. The blast of the music and the shards of roaming neon lights were a punch to the gut. He had been in withdrawal of clubs like he had been of drugs, apparently. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he stepped in further, and surveyed the place. Josef was right behind him, following his every step.
For its large space and the coveted location downtown, the club was fairly unpopulated. At the centre of the floor was a stage with a stripper pole, a runway that led to a wall of satiny, black curtains, and a suspended cage. There were girls on the stage everywhere, mostly naked, thrusting perky tits out while they stretched their legs up poles or twerked their round asses high in the air. The girls inside the cage were dressed like kittens, licking their paws and down on all four as they crawled around and touched themselves.
Roman ignored his cock that dared to thicken inside his jeans at the idea of a lap tease from a chick with kitten ears—just because.
The place was definitely a hard-on.
Josef put a hand on his shoulder, indicating the bar to him, and the two of them weaved their way through. He recognized the Yazov crowd straight away, and they did, too.
Suddenly, all eyes were on him while he asked for a vodka at the counter. Did anyone drink anything else here? Roman always wondered why they even bothered to fully stock these lavish bars when the only drink every member of the bratva wanted was vodka.
Josef spoke to the chick serving the drinks while Roman made note of the men who continued eyeing him from their position across the way. Traditionalists in their bratva lifestyle, Roman stuck out like a sore and bandaged thumb amongst the group. He wasn’t even fucking inked like they were. The only tattoos he had were the on the back of his neck—an eagle; his definition of true freedom—and the black roses on his chest afforded to him by his father. The only sign of his bratva rank.
And by the standards of these men—who wore proud, eight-pointed stars on their clavicles to signify their vory status—not a proper sign of rank, either.
If these men had to judge a guy by his cover at first glance, they looked for the ink first to tell them the story they needed to know about a man, and apparently, Roman had none. It was one of the many places his father’s bratva had separated from the traditionalists over the decades.
If this was their first impression of the New York Avdonins—Roman knew he was doing a piss poor job of it. He gave them the standard fuck off stare, hoping one would make a comment so he could make something of it, and then turned to speak to Josef.
Instead, he found a different man standing behind him. He recognized the scar across his right eye. Something a pirate might have earned himself and would have covered with a patch—the unsightly, puckered wound might have been long healed, but it was still damn uncomfortable to look at. But Igor Ivanov didn’t have time for shit like making others comfortable with something stupid like staring at him.
“You are Roman Avdonin,” Igor said, the words a grunted utter through a thick Russian accent that made Roman tip his chin up a bit in response.
Another weak spot for him.
He’d never cared to learn the language.
Roman eyed Josef standing at the far end of the counter, watching with careful amusement. Apparently, he wanted to keep his distance while Igor spoke with him. Wasn’t he supposed to be by his side at all times?
“Yes, I am. And you are Igor Ivanov. Nice place, man.”
Igor arched a thick brow, the one where the scar continued right up through to his forehead. “Demyan Avdonin’s pup.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Igor bared his teeth like a rabid dog might when he was at the end of his chain, and already going insane. “Okay, how about we try this, no? The only reason you are still alive is because our boss and yours have shaken hands. Comrades.”
No. The only reason Roman was even in Chicago was because their bratva had screwed him over, but he kept that to himself.
The angry Russian at his side continued on, saying through clenched teeth, “You think you’re some big boss now—calling the shots on my fucking side of town for that stupid little scheme of yours? You’re nothing more than a piece of slimy shit stuck to my shoe, pup.”
Nice.
Some guys just had to go and make a big deal about people coming into their territory—they made a show out of it, even. Roman couldn’t say he’d done what Igor accused, but it wasn’t impossible, either. At the same time, if those Russians in the corner were men of Igor’s specifically, then this show made a lot more sense.
Everyone had to make their lines clear.
Mark their territory well.
At the same time, Roman wouldn’t be made to look like a dumb fuck for Igor’s pleasure, either. “I’m just doing what I’ve been told to do, actually. If my business has intersected with yours since I’ve been here, my bad—nature of my work sometimes, you know?”
“And yet, you are here, making demands. They’ll have to find another warehouse for you—I won’t be giving up one of mine to add to whatever collection Maxim is building for your spoiled ass, suka.”
Ah.
Now he’d gone from calling Roman a pup, to taunting him with the Russian equivalent for bitch. Weak men loved the simplicity of name-calling; he’d always thought it was really just a sign of someone’s lack of intelligence. They didn’t have a better comeback than a name that might piss a man off, or hurt his ego.
To him?
That shit was funny.
Roman breathed deeply, squaring his shoulde
rs as a realization dawned on him. He was starting to see what this was really about. Igor was undoubtedly pissed off because Roman had turned away the list that was sent to him—a list of men Igor suggested for the new team at the chop shop gig.
“I am going to run the scheme my way,” Roman said to the man, keeping his arms folded across the bar, and his position as relaxed as he could seem. He had a short fuse, sure, but he also saw bait when it was right in front of his face. He wouldn’t be the idiot taking it here. “I’m sure Maxim will agree that I know what I’m doing. He wouldn’t have gotten me here if he didn’t already believe it to be true.”
“You’re just ... just a fucking kid!”
Igor’s yell carried over the thumping music, making men turn to stare their way. It was just another excuse to look, everyone already knew Igor and Roman were talking business. Now they simply didn’t have to pretend not to pay attention.
Tension was a buzz electrifying the air while conversations dropped to a low hum. They were all trying to hear what might be said next, and the ball was in his court. Roman took it, happily.
“And yet, your pakhan has given me the final say on everything regarding my business,” Roman said. “So if you don’t like that, you know exactly the man to take it to. I encourage you to do so.”
Igor’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his drink tighter. He took a step closer to Roman, but he held his ground, not moving a single inch. The man wouldn’t touch him, he knew that. He was here under Maxim’s orders. As long as he didn’t provoke the man in a purposeful way that would justify a response, Roman wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Igor knew it, too. One hard breath from the man, and he muttered, “Enjoy yourself tonight, yes? Who knows how long it will last.”
Igor turned away, and immediately the conversations resumed around them. Josef almost looked relieved when Roman caught his eye.
The second Igor had walked away, Josef replaced his empty space.
“Didn’t think I could do it, did you?” he asked, daring to grin.
“Just keep your fucking head down. You’re going to get my ass in trouble for bringing you here.”
“We were just having a chat, man, relax. It’s all good.”
Even though Roman was smiling, a tightness settled deep in his abdomen. This was Chicago, he wasn’t the prince of the streets here. Little Odessa’s Devil was not in Brighton Beach anymore, and every fucking piece of shit here was going to remind him of exactly that.
Over and over again.
He looked around, scanning the crowd that had spread away now, each group pretending they didn’t have their eye on him. If this was the only way to survive this place, he would have loved to do it with a little bit of help to give him an edge. One that afforded him the ability to not care. However, cocaine was off the table. He knew he couldn’t get back into that chaotic spiral, not now.
Not here.
Maybe when he finally had some money coming in and had something to show for himself—maybe then he’d be able to test Maxim’s limits if life was as boring as it currently happened to be. Until then, just like Josef said, the only way to get through this was by keeping his head down. Which meant he needed to stay clean.
“Where are you going?”
Josef’s clipped and worried voice hit his back as Roman left the counter, and headed away. He didn’t want to be stuck in the VIP section all night, mainly because he didn’t want to stare at the faces of the Yazov crew the whole time. Besides, he liked the look of the pussycats in the cage up on the stage.
He decided not to respond to Josef, knowing he would be followed anyway.
At the edge of the stage, Roman stood staring up at the girls who were dancing and swinging their bodies in the most delicious way. He was already reaching for his wallet, fishing crisp bills out to stick in their thongs when they came near enough for it.
Hey.
Talent deserved to be rewarded.
“The boss had a message for me to give to you, by the way,” Josef said as he came up behind Roman.
“And when were you going to tell me about it?”
“I’m telling you now.”
Roman should have probably been paying a little more attention to what Josef had to say, but one of the costumed girls had crawled over to the edge of the cage. She was on all fours, purring like a cat, and staring with her piercing, painted cat eyes directly at him.
He was distracted.
But goddamn.
It was a good distraction to have.
“He wants you to go see him by the end of this month—before tribute,” Josef continued.
“Why?”
Roman slipped a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet, and waved it in front of his face as his tongue flicked out to touch the top of his teeth. The girl sat up on her knees and then turned, displaying her long, curling tail. Underneath the tail, she was in a thong which he barely noticed. All he had eyes for was her plump ass which she offered to him by thrusting it up for him to admire.
Roman stretched out his arm, tucking the bill into the strap of her thong. When she shook her ass, the tail swished, and she winked over her shoulder in gratitude. His mind wandered to the thought of pinning her to the bars of the cage, fucking her right there in front of everyone to watch.
Yeah.
He wasn’t even a fan of strippers. Certainly not for anything more than their chosen job. He didn’t get off on the idea of people watching the woman he was fucking as much as he just needed to get his dick wet. It had been too long.
“He’s the boss,” Josef said, making Roman’s irritation notch higher simply by hearing the man’s voice alone. Couldn’t he just watch a chick shake her ass so at least he had a vision to jack off to in the shower later? Fuck. Unfortunately, Josef continued on. “He makes the rules. I don’t ask questions. He wants to see you, and you have to go.”
Fuck Josef.
Fuck the entire conversation.
Roman looked over at the bull, hoping the man would see the warning in his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll go.”
“You’re not listening to me. You need to have something to show when you meet him. Do you understand? If you’ve not made any money here this month, you better have something else to show instead.”
Roman emptied the remainder of the vodka down his throat, relishing the way it spread a warmth in the pit of his stomach. “Or fucking what?”
At first, it seemed that Josef was going to just stay silent, but he really didn’t seem like the type to play the mysterious angle. Straight to the point was more his style. It was one of the few things he did like about the man. He proved Roman right when he stared hard at him, and said frankly, “The last time a guy showed up empty-handed when the boss was expecting something—he left without his right hand.”
Roman clenched his jaw until his molars ached. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“The boss had it cut off—made him bring it to the following meetings just because, no? Fucking thing even started to stink. It means, you arrogant little shit, that you should be thankful you still have two hands to hold your cash in. Mind your manners, and you still will at the end of the month, too.”
Well, then.
Fair enough.
SIX
Karine Yazov’s eyelids fluttered, her body’s way of threatening to pull her from sleep, but she refused to open them yet. A silly part of her had always believed that if she just kept her eyes shut, pretended that she hadn’t woken, then she would quickly fall back asleep. It never worked—she also didn't stop trying.
It was only the warmth of the sunlight on her face that made her decide maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to wake up. The brightness shining in through one of her bedroom windows kept her from turning her face directly into the light, but that was okay, too. With her eyelids still shut tight, she kept her dreams to herself.
Somehow, she’d managed to convince herself that if she didn’t open her eyes, then those wonderfu
l dreams she was seeing wouldn't leave. She would then belong to that world where she had both hands grazing the thick, sturdy trunk of a tree as she swung around it.
But it was good there.
In the dream.
Warm, soft moss at her feet. Shrill, but sweet, laughter curling into a summer day.
There was another girl there—a kid, actually. She had the same chestnut hair as Karine, long, pin-straight, and brushed neatly to spread around her shoulders. The little girl continued to watch her in silence while Karine swung and swung around the tree trunk. The laughter she heard was her own childish giggle—that very feeling of joy and exhilaration was something she had never quite known before. A feeling that she knew would disappear if she opened her eyes.
She had decided already—she was never going to open her eyes again.
Simple as that.
“Get up, get up. Stop playing foolish in your bed sheets because you don’t want to deal with a hangover.”
Masha’s voice broke through the scene in her head—the sharp tone of her nanny ripping Karine back to reality before she was ready. She could still feel the twisted bark of the tree’s trunk under her fingertips. The little girl watched on as Karine was yanked further away, but Masha’s voice continued on like a loud echo in her brain that came from somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere that the place she dreamed of—with warm moss under the trunk of a tree a little girl who never talked—didn’t exist. No matter how hard she tried to hold on to the false reality in her dreams, she couldn’t. A life, one still cloaked in make-believe, waited for her.
Her eyelids fluttered again, and this time opened, just enough to let the sunlight filter in.
Too bright.
So bright.
“Don’t be lazy, Karine,” Masha scolded. “Must we do this every day?”
She still refused to crack her eyes open beyond what she already did as Masha walked around the bedroom, pulling curtains open and brightening the room further. Another day, Karine might have demanded to be allowed to sleep more, but she didn’t have the energy to make those protests. The easiest route to a decent morning was for her to do as Masha said.