by Bethany-Kris
Her nanny gave her a happy smile and then stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her without a sound. That left Katee alone in the darkness that she feared the most.
She spent a handful of minutes in the bed, unmoving, eyes peeled, but willing them to close for sleep. Dreams were better than being awake in the dark. Bad things happened in the dark—she knew that all too well. But as the fear started to crawl over her skin, even under the thick, heaviness of her blankets, she jumped out like she’d been burned. Katee tried.
She did.
But she just couldn’t do it.
Rushing to the windows, she yanked the curtains open again, panting when the light flooded in. Air sucked into her lungs, one giant gulp after another. She forgot how to even breathe in the dark.
Her mind buzzed while her fingers itched. The way they did when she felt that urge to draw. She needed to find something to draw on. It was how she remembered what she had seen.
Trying to keep quiet, Katee searched the room, pulling down books from the shelves and opening drawers. They always moved her things—she hated that. Nothing was ever in the same place twice, even when she asked.
It was okay, though. There were notebooks and sketch pads everywhere. Picking one that satisfied her, she moved onto her next task. Pulling sheets and pillows off the bed, and even the ones on the chaise near the window. They piled high on the floor, but Katee didn’t care.
It wasn’t until she found a pen stuck inside a book on one of the shelves that she stopped rummaging—also satisfied with the drawing nest she had made on the floor—knowing Maria wouldn’t come knocking for a while. At least an hour.
Katee crawled into the makeshift bed of sheets and pillows, putting pen to paper with focused determination of the fast swipes of the pen’s tip against a bone white background. She needed to start drawing—when she did that, it was all her mind could see. Just the image on the paper, the picture she was trying to show. The face of the man she had seen today. Then, she wouldn’t have to see the other things waiting in her mind, lingering until she almost forgot ...
Thankfully, the pen was so blue that she could color his eyes the same shade. The right shade.
She scratched the pen wildly to the paper, not stopping once to examine if she was doing a good job or if the side of her hand was smearing the ink. It was always perfect. Only her handwriting needed a little work.
Or so Maria said.
The door creaked open before Katee had a chance to hide the paper behind her, making her lose the image in her mind as her head snapped up to see who came to her room. Maria, she thought, ready to scold her for getting out of bed before smiling because she was drawing and mostly behaving.
Except it wasn’t her nanny.
Katee’s air caught sharply in her throat, aching as the words she wanted to use to call for Maria caught in her throat. All it took was the sight of him to do that to her.
The monster.
It wasn’t often that he caught her by surprise. Twice in one day was too much for her to handle.
“What have you done?” he growled at her, stepping further into the room and widening the door on his way. His face scrunched up, and every bitter word that poured from his mouth had her recoiling more. Already. “Look at this fucking mess.”
“I ... I’m s-sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Katee’s apology was instant.
And meek.
She wasn’t even sure what she was apologizing for, only that she needed to appease him somehow. Quickly.
Katee thought to call for Maria when the expression on his face changed—the moment he heard her voice. It was a brief second of distraction, but fleeting. Her chance was gone before she even really realized it was there. His eyes grew wider, the anger melting away into a sinister smile that curled the corners of his mouth.
He drew in a deep breath like he was ... pleased.
With what?
She was always asking him that.
Are you happy?
Is this what you want?
Will you leave me alone now?
The answer was always the same. He kept coming back, after all.
He turned away from her only long enough to close the bedroom door, and lock it. Katee was already shrinking back, away, curling herself into a ball. That wouldn’t stop him from doing what he was going to do.
It never did.
TWELVE
Roman had been made to wait an entire hour before he finally got to meet with the boss. Tribute meant a lot of things to different men in their life, but the money was the one thing that never changed. He sensed everybody around him waited on tenterhooks, careful with their every word or request because no one wanted to piss off the pakhan today. It seemed like Maxim was in the kind of mood where he could randomly lose his shit over nothing.
When Roman was finally shown into Maxim’s den, he walked into a cloud of smoke the second his feet passed the office’s threshold. Thick and gray, created by the cigar that Maxim was smoking where he sat behind his desk, the smoke stuck in the back of Roman’s lungs when he sucked in a breath.
Only one other man remained in the room with the boss—Leonid. Dima’s father, he knew, and one of Maxim’s spies. The closest hand to the boss who made sure every brigadier in the bratva was toeing the line.
Whatever line that was.
Roman rarely cared to learn them.
Dropping the two duffle bags on the floor, Roman said nothing while Maxim and Leonid glanced at it, and then toward him again.
“What are your thoughts on your job so far?” Maxim asked, that cigar bouncing from the corner of his mouth with every word.
Leonid stood up and walked over to grab the bags without being ordered to do so. Roman remained still in place, unmoving. He knew how this worked. It was not his first tribute day—the ritual had been with him while he grew up, reminding him monthly of where he would eventually be expected to be in one way or another.
The only difference?
His father didn’t expect the money delivered in cash anymore.
All it would take for the money to disappear was Maxim’s ashtray catching fire. The whole place would burn down, and take the cash with it. Roman never really understood the value of having cold, hard cash by the millions just lying around. It was harder to hide—harder to keep.
Then again, nobody asked his opinion.
“Well?” Maxim demanded.
“I did the job, as best it could be done, under the circumstances and given the resources I have. Currently. Having said that—I’m just getting started.”
“So, you’re saying you’ll have more for me next month?”
Roman only shrugged in response. Let the man make of that whatever he wanted. He wasn’t the type to make promises he couldn’t keep, but he also knew what was expected of him at the end of the day. More was always better. To an extreme. Greed knew no bounds.
Especially in their world.
Maxim would never stop wanting more and more ... and more. Frankly, Roman had to respect it. As much as he could manage, anyhow.
Beside him, but closer to the boss’s desk, Leonid sat at a table with an electronic counting machine. Sliding wads of cash into the machine, the man never looked away from the dancing money while a loud whirring sound resounded through the room with each one. The slow smile and subtle nod told him Leonid was happy with the results he was seeing. He even grunted his approval toward Maxim, a signal for the boss to turn back on Roman.
“And what about your cut—have you paid yourself?” Maxim asked.
“Last night. The money came through to one of my offshore accounts. Not that I expected anything different.”
“And the ... cars?”
Did he care, or was the man just curious? What did it matter how Roman was paid, or the details of the overall job as long as Maxim was paid?
Roman indulged the question because he didn’t have much of a choice. “They’re already on a boat, all taken apart in a thousand different
pieces, but there. That’s my part of the deal, they’ll deal with the rest.”
Maxim nodded, impressed.
Silence reigned in the den as Leonid continued his business at the table. Maxim seemed fine to let that be the case while he worked on the cigar still filling the room with smoke. He toyed with the glass of vodka on ice at the edge of his desk, sipping on the drink, and watching his spy pile up stack after stack of dirty money.
Roman counted the minutes.
A good thirty of them.
Finally, Leonid muttered, “And the money is all here, yeah? Every last dollar.”
Maxim gestured to Roman once more, saying, “You’ve done good work here. I’ll make sure your father hears about it, too.”
That was all Roman needed. He wasn’t here for more. Having gone through the expectations of tribute and the charade of the event, he no longer needed to remain there once his offering to the boss was counted as right and good. Turning to walk away, Maxim stopped him again.
“And I want to thank you for not speaking about my daughter,” Maxim said, the low words still managing to crawl across the room and slam into Roman’s tense back like a punch. “Not mentioning her to anyone, no?”
Roman stopped in his tracks, careful to control the surprise daring to spark in his eyes when he pivoted on the spot, facing Maxim.
What the fuck was this about?
He raised his brow higher, and Maxim continued.
“It’s a delicate time for her ...”
“And us,” Leonid murmured to himself while he stuffed the money back into the bags.
Roman kept his confusion under the surface—but only because one thing was clear. The fact that the Yazov Bratva clearly had some kind of problem with Karine. Even though she was Maxim’s daughter, something strange surrounded her.
Especially here.
It bothered Roman.
He opened his mouth to ask for an explanation; he hadn’t even mentioned Karine. Maxim’s willingness to offer conversation about her—even if it was only to thank him again—struck Roman as odd. Considering the way the man had acted the first time.
Roman hadn’t forgotten that threat.
Maxim was quick to keep talking, forcing Roman to stay quiet and listen. “I was just curious to see if you would speak to someone about her. It’d be natural, you know? Human nature. Anyone would want to find out more about my daughter, but certainly when they’re new to my world. Ask questions about her, even. But you didn’t, and that’s a good sign, Roman. Another testament to your loyalty, I think.”
Roman flexed his jaw with every clench of his teeth, uneasy with the man’s tone that didn’t fill him with confidence, despite the words Maxim used. He offered the remark about loyalty like it was a compliment, yet it landed more backhanded than perhaps he intended. Or maybe that was exactly what Maxim wanted.
There was only one thing Roman trusted in Chicago—that he was watched and reported on constantly. Who was it? Josef, likely. One of the many bulls that came and went, lingering a little too long whenever Roman showed his face at the business of a Yazov affiliated man. Or were there others keeping a close eye on him? Some even he hadn’t caught on to yet? Reporting back to the pakhan when Roman had done something or nothing.
Probably.
But the thing was—the more Maxim talked about his daughter, bringing her back to Roman’s attention for no other reason than he apparently could, the more he fixated on her. He certainly wouldn’t forget about Karine that easily. Certainly not when everything about and around her seemed ... not quite right. He found that interesting even if it was a problem.
At least, Roman knew that.
One thing to his benefit, anyway.
“If that’s all, then I should go,” Roman said, offering nothing in return about Karine or Maxim’s random statements that felt way too much like bait. “I have calls to make.”
Since the boss didn’t interrupt him that time, he made a beeline for the door.
If only it could be that easy.
Just as he was about to step out, Dima appeared.
Roman’s blood ran cold the moment the two came face to face. It wasn’t just him who stiffened with a narrowed stare. Dima matched his demeanor and posture. Vodka be damned—that grudge was alive and well.
The guy still despised Roman.
Well, shit.
The sentiment was mutual.
“Where have you been?” Leonid snapped behind Roman, interrupting the hatred swelling silently between the two men in the doorway. “Today’s not the day to be fucking off, Dima.”
Dima openly glared at his father, making Roman clear his throat and avert his own stare. Awkward was a fucking understatement. No matter what issues existed between Roman and Demyan, his father would never talk to him that way. Not in front of other people.
He was grateful for that.
Maybe, instead of the unsettling, constant irritation that accompanied him whenever the guy was within breathing distance, Roman should have felt sorry for Dima.
Or not.
“I was busy,” Dima replied shortly.
“Nothing is that important. You’re missing business.”
Leonid’s response hit its mark. Dima tore his glare away from his father, and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Roman. The two returned to their defensive postures and cold expressions without blinking.
“Don’t linger in the driveway this time.”
Dima had spoken through clenched teeth, and Roman wasn’t sure if the others even heard him.
“You should come. Shouldn't he, Maxim? You should come, Roman,” Leonid said, bringing him back to a conversation he hadn’t paid attention to in the first damn place. Roman was regretting that now.
Roman spun on his heels to face the room again. “What?”
“I’m sure the boss will agree that you’ve earned an invite,” Leonid continued.
Maxim nodded as he sucked on his cigar while his right-hand man grinned, and looked to Roman for a reply. Maybe a thank you, who the fuck knew? But for what?
Roman wasn’t exactly sure what he was agreeing to, but he mumbled a sort of non-committal response, anyway. Whatever got him out of that office. He didn’t want to stick around a moment longer. Not when Dima was around.
Nonetheless, it worked.
Satisfied with his reply, Roman was dismissed without another word. He waved a hand over his shoulder, and left the room, forcing Dima to take a step aside to let him pass. Briefly, he might catch one glimpse of Karine. He should have known she would be nowhere to be seen—Roman was starting to believe certain people didn’t want her to be.
At all.
• • •
Maybe it was because Dima told him not to linger, but Roman decided to do just that. Even though the asshole remained in Maxim’s office, he took pleasure in defying Dima’s demands.
It was the simple things.
The little stuff.
A part of him hoped Dima might be waiting at the entrance when he made his way back around, but no such luck.
Apparently, the two weren’t going to get another run-in. That was unfortunate considering with tribute done and over, Roman had a whole month to find ways to piss Dima off just because he could. As long as he could get away with it. He was sure he could find a few different ways to make that happen.
Roman milled around the foyer and lobby area of the mansion for a bit, sharing easy conversation with a few of the men waiting. The bulls were familiar with him by now, and despite the day, they didn’t mind the distraction he offered for a while.
Everybody had shit to do.
Didn’t mean they wanted to do it.
After a while, nobody seemed to care that Roman was admiring the oil paintings hanging on the walls. His mother’s appreciation for art kept him standing there admiring the brushwork that had gone into a particular painting with a plaque underneath dated only Fall, 1930. Roman tried to picture it, but he couldn’t quite imagine Maxim picking out the art himself
. He had to have a collector on his payroll who made the purchases on his behalf—investments, likely. Much like the rest of the material wealth in the estate.
All of it was just to prove a point to the rest of the world—Maxim was king of Chicago. He had the most, the best. What everyone else didn’t.
Roman knew, in some ways, he was a disappointment to his father and grandfather. His less than savory habits and wild ways, to start with, left them feeling like he was constantly walking on unsteady ground. Even if they never explicitly said it, it didn’t have to be. And yet, he didn’t want it to be like that. He also didn’t want to be this, either.
The man Maxim was ...
A boss hiding in a big house, really. Trusting that just his presence and name was enough to ensure the men on the streets were all doing as they should—because his yes men said so.
What good did that do?
Useless.
The show of material-wealth and paid-for taste wasn’t something that impressed him. Instead, it annoyed him, leaving him with heaviness in his stomach that was unsettling and uncomfortable. Pretty things usually hid ugly truths, and even he was a good example of that.
What was hiding here?
The more time he spent in Chicago, the clearer it became to him that Maxim was making errors with his people. In little ways, sure, but he caught it all the same.
Roman smiled to himself as he surveyed another painting. The last thing he had any right to do was offer advice to the pakhan of a successful bratva, and yet he couldn’t help but consider how different things might be in Chicago if Maxim cared to run the streets, on the streets.
He wandered the halls until he found the guest toilets. He decided to go for a piss—even took extra long to do so, and washed his hands with a pearl-colored soap that smelled like vanilla and cream, before spending some time staring at himself in the mirror. Just to increase the chances of bumping into Dima again.
Roman was clearly bored if he was actively looking for trouble. For a man with his issues, nobody could say he wasn’t self-aware. There was a method to his madness, though. He wanted the asshole to know he would continue doing exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted.