by Bethany-Kris
Quiet, compliant women.
He didn’t come from that kind of world—his mother humbled his father daily as a form of foreplay that Roman really didn’t enjoy knowing about in the first damn place. He wasn’t accustomed to females that were to be seen, but not heard. And he couldn’t particularly say he liked it, either.
It was that reason alone, and the fact that when the woman in the doorway did step outside, let the door close behind her with a loud bang that didn’t even earn a flinch from her, she did dare to meet his eyes. He saw fear there, but she did it.
He respected that.
“Please,” she said, still staring at him, unmoving.
She was the same woman he saw with Karine that first time at the pool, and here she was, interrupting them again—he didn’t think that was a coincidence. Roman never believed in those.
It was the strangest thing, but at her unwavering, knowing stare nailing him to the brick at his back, he almost felt the urge to explain. Or lie. He got the feeling she was daring him to say anything at all—try it—but the soft pleading of her expression even despite the fire in her eyes made him feel guilty.
Like somehow, he’d crossed some line. And not one he should feel particularly good about. What had she first said? Karine was ... spoken for?
Roman had no idea how it all happened. It took him by surprise. He didn’t expect Karine to kiss him, but the way the woman behaved suggested he hadn’t been doing anything wrong. She liked it.
Clearly.
“What are you talking about?” Roman asked then, foregoing the safety of the shadows altogether and stepping closer to the restaurant’s door.
The woman was older—Roman’s mother’s age, or a little more—but the clothes she wore made it very clear she was not related to Maxim Yazov. The gray tunic, long-sleeve woven dress and comfortable, but practical, black ankle boots with the one inch heel was more of a uniform. Especially in comparison to the ten-thousand-dollar custom tailored suits worn by the men inside that restaurant. Even the servers had more expensive heels on their feet.
“I don’t know what happened here,” she told him when it appeared like Roman wasn’t going to ask again. “And I don’t want to know. I didn’t see anything, but if you have a heart, you will leave the poor girl alone.”
What?
“Poor girl?”
Roman chuckled.
The woman’s eyes turned cold and harsh in a blink.
“You were in the restaurant earlier. I saw you. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about,” she snapped back fast.
Not particularly.
It was true that Roman had turned up here because Josef reminded him again this morning that the boss expected him to be at this dinner. Despite the fact he couldn’t seem to make it clear enough that he had no real interest in participating in the general semantics and theatrics of the bratva, everyone seemed determined to continue to require it from him regardless.
Apparently, Maxim and Leonid wanted him to be a part of the celebrations. So, fine. He showed up early, Roman kept to himself and didn’t make like he cared to talk or stay long, once he’d showed his face to the boss and Leonid, he handed over five-k in cash stuffed inside an envelope. The standard gift from one made man to another for typical familial celebrations, which was what Josef assured he had heard this event would be. Thankfully, the man had been shadowing him a lot less lately—whatever the reason for the change, Roman couldn’t say.
Then, he was out of there. Roman didn’t care what these people were celebrating. He didn’t want to take part, or pretend to. The least he could do was not stick around and act like it matted. It was none of his business. He figured he would find out eventually—what the celebrations were about if it was actually important or might make a difference to how he did business in Chicago.
He doubted it would.
Except he hadn’t hightailed it out of the restaurant before he had the pleasure of seeing Karine walk into the restaurant. In a slinky, champagne-toned dress with a slit in the thigh and showing so much skin, that made her look like she belonged in the Playboy Mansion. The most intriguing part about Karine was she had no idea the effect she had on men.
On every man in the room.
In fact, he watched every head turn.
But she didn’t.
It was at that point when Roman decided he had to get some air. He needed to catch his breath because seeing Karine was like being punched in the gut. The second gut punch came when he saw her sit between her father and Dima. Even though she didn’t look at all like she wanted to be there, Dima stared at her like a hungry dog with a bone in his bowl. It made Roman’s blood boil, and he couldn’t explain why.
He had to get out of there, so he did, before the party even got started.
Roman had slipped into the alleyway, undetected, to have a smoke. He definitely wasn’t expecting Karine to show up here a few minutes later, but she did and the rest was history.
“I missed the big announcement. Care to fill me in?” he asked the woman, though he was pretty sure he had already pieced together the entire shit show.
She sighed, and shook her head. “They are engaged. Dima and Karine. Everyone in the bratva has already decided she is his—he made his intentions clear months ago, and no one challenged him. Not even her father. And with that being said, Dima is the son of one of the boss’s closest trustees. It doesn’t matter what she wants or needs.”
Roman stood stock still.
Why?
He didn’t care to wonder what would make her agree—there was a good chance if there had ever been a choice for her where the engagement was concerned, it would be nothing more than an illusion. But that didn’t explain why she would be out in the alley with him doing what she had.
What was it—regret, maybe?
“Huh,” Roman said, more to himself than anyone else.
The woman didn’t quite take it that way when she replied, “Yes, so if you want to make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble, you will stay away.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
The woman glanced at her feet, instantly reminded with one question of her place, it seemed. Roman didn’t like what he assumed that to mean.
“Masha.”
He pressed her more. “Last name?”
She shook her head.
Just as he figured—she was a slave.
One of the many that the Yazovs used and traded. There was an almost intermarket for that type of shit in the criminal underworld, especially when certain factions of an organization were already dealing in trafficking in one way or another. She had to truly care for Karine and her welfare to take the risk of speaking to a vor in the way she did to him.
She couldn’t know he wasn't the violent type with women—Roman never got off on that, but it was still everywhere, too. Nonetheless, the fact she took the risk said a lot.
Her job definitely did not entail simply warning men against getting involved with the boss’s daughter, and leaving it at that.
Masha apparently intended to make her point to Roman very clear, and for the first time since she stepped out into the alleyway, he decided to really listen. “I don’t know what game you are playing with her, but you’re putting her in danger. You know him—Dima. Everyone does. What he is really like. He’s cruel and vicious. He can be unkind to her and ... and ... violent.”
Roman stiffened.
Masha continued on. “Even when not provoked, he just enjoys being mean. Imagine what it’s like when he has a reason. I don’t know what you want from her, but I don’t want her to get hurt. I hope we want the same thing.”
Roman stared at Masha, still absorbing her news. He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Karine—that beautiful creature who looked like the Devil’s angel in her slinky dress—a woman who could have any man she wanted, and not just because of who her father was, had been given to Dima.
Fucking Dima.
Masha certainly hinted at the
fact that Karine hadn’t chosen him, and Roman could basically draw that conclusion himself, too, but that didn’t change the end result.
The hot swell of rage that washed through Roman was the only thing that kept him silent. A part of him that he was trying to ignore was still attempting to piece together how the woman he had been thinking about since they first met—the one who occupied all his thoughts lately—was already spoken for by a man he despised.
The world was really laughing at him.
It had to be.
Unfortunately, it was the same anger that kept him quiet that also made him lash out at Masha when he told her, “And if you fucking cared about her so much, you would stop giving her those pills.”
Masha snapped back, spine straightening.
“Don’t act surprised,” Roman said in a scoff. “I saw you slipping a pill into her hand before she sat down at the table. She might as well have already been reaching for it like she knew it was coming. Seeing that, it explained a lot of things to me. Like why she’s always in such a fucking daze. This has nothing to do with who she is—it’s what you’re feeding her.”
She shook her head frantically, the defiant fire back in her gaze in a flash. “Those pills are the least of her problems—what makes you think she doesn’t need them? You don’t even know what they are.”
Once again, he was reminded that Masha took a big risk speaking to him with such disrespect. His wounded pride wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t see the woman did actually care for Karine.
Masha seemed ready to end the conversation, though, when she glanced back over her shoulder. Keeping one hand on the door, she moved towards him a little before shoving a piece of folded up paper his way like she wanted him to take it. He looked down at it, and then back up at her again.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on, and I can try and help.”
“We don’t need your help.” Masha stuck the paper out towards him, saying sharply, “Well, take it. And let that be the last of it.”
Roman did, but he wasn’t sure he understood what the contents in or on the paper would do to change what had already happened.
“I really hope you will do the right thing and leave her alone,” Masha added as she turned to head back inside the business. Tossing him one last look over her shoulder, she only offered a nod before she was gone.
Alone and feeling like it, Roman pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it up. The rain had stopped falling by now, but the air was still wet with every breath, and he raked a hand through his hair, rubbing some of the water out. He had the piece of paper in one hand, the same one where he dangled the smoke between two fingers, but he waited while he took the first long drag of smoke. Filling his lungs, he exhaled, willing the gray cloud to take the hell in his mind with it, and then he opened up the folded paper.
It took a second.
And then two.
The darkness didn’t help at first.
A sketch?
A man’s face was etched into the paper with violent pen strokes. The style was like how a kid would draw, scribbling hastily, too fast, all over the page, but the art was actually still quite sophisticated. There was more than enough detail to discern that the face staring back at him was his own.
He was sure of it.
At the corner of the page was his name, too, written in a hand that was once again—very childlike. Slightly messy, shaky letters, still clear.
He couldn’t understand it at all—not the sketch, why Masha gave it to him, or the entire night to begin with.
There were so many unanswered questions, and Roman wasn’t sure what to do about them. The one thing he knew for sure—there was no way in hell he was going to apologize for putting his hands on Karine in the alleyway.
Having the information he did about Leonid and the plan on Maxim, and Karine’s new place as Dima’s fiancée, well ...
Roman knew himself well enough to predict he wasn’t going to drop it, either.
Taking one last drag from his cigarette, he tossed it into the darkness, watching the coal flicker as he blew out the smoke, and murmured, “Sorry, Masha.”
FIFTEEN
“You’re distracted.”
The accusation from Marky hit Roman harder than he expected. Quickly, and without noise, he folded up the sketch—his likeness—and stuffed it back into his pocket before spinning around on the mechanic’s stool to face his friend.
“I’m not,” he replied.
They both knew he was lying. Marky didn’t know what Roman was trying to hide to call him out on the lie, but there was obviously a noticeable change in him, and his friend pointed it out more than once. One negative of having the man working with him in Chicago considering Marky knew Roman better than most.
“Well, you are,” Marky returned, but at the arch of Roman’s brow, the man shrugged. “I can’t help but say it when I see it.”
Roman wished he wouldn’t.
It had been a week since that night at the restaurant when Roman discovered what Karine’s future was set to hold. The same night he learned that touching her was like catching the worst kind of addiction. It was all he kept thinking about, running those minutes over and over again in his head until the images were permanently imprinted behind the backs of his eyelids. He saw her, wet, in his arms, legs parted for him, ready to ask for more.
Why couldn’t he get that out of his head?
Knowing what he did, he should.
The same night Masha had handed him the piece of paper with his sketch and name on it—clearly drawn by a child. Yet another thing that kept bringing in his attention when it was better spent literally anywhere else. Roman really was a sucker for punishment in more ways than one. His obsessive nature was going to get him into trouble.
That much was clear.
So, it had been a whole week of Roman being clueless about what the fuck was going on in the Yazov mansion. At the same time he tried to pretend like he didn’t know anything was going on at all because what did it matter. Even if something was up—who was he to say so?
Yeah.
He was a little off his game.
People noticed.
Unfortunately.
“At least, you seem settled here, man,” Marky said, breaking through his thoughts.
Roman had to admit that it was good to have a friendly face in the shop with him—the face of someone he could actually trust. Marky was going to be there for a week or a little more to help him with the next haul.
A fifteen-car gig that was coming up in the next twenty-four hours. Marky had it all planned out—to the very last detail—and they were supposed to be going over it. Except, Roman was off in lala land.
Like a useless fuck.
“I don’t know about being settled,” Roman answered, “but it’s a decent scene. Work-wise.”
“You been going out?” Marky asked.
“No. Obviously not. I’ve been careful with that.”
“Staying out of trouble.”
Roman nodded.
Marky’s grin came out to play in a flash. “Shit, I’m here now. We could make good use of a bag of blow and a few pairs of tits.”
Roman joined his friend’s laughter, and took a swig from his can of beer. Thing was—his heart wasn’t in it. Correction, his cock wasn’t interested.
There was no use denying the fact that it had everything to do with Karine. She occupied his every waking thought. If it wasn’t something less than innocent on his mind, then he was worrying about her for one reason or another. He was sure he was even seeing her in his sleep. And that damned dress with the slit down her leg so he couldn’t take his eyes off her pale, smooth thigh.
Fucking hell.
There he went again ... Roman grinded his molars in an effort to get his thoughts in another direction. She was what made up every red blooded man’s wet dreams, though. No point in denying it.
“There something on your mind, or ...?” Marky asked.
&n
bsp; There were too many chunks of silence between them, and Roman was too stuck inside his head to keep up with his false pretenses.
“On some real shit?” Roman said to his friend.
That made Marky sit up straighter. “What about it?”
He considered what he wanted to say, and how to say it. Never was there a time in his life that Roman felt a need to be careful about the words he chose. It was a dangerous thing to be poking into the business of bratva men.
And still, there was something shady going on in the Yazov mansion. It was a good thing that the assholes had made a point of watching him and offering little to no trust, because he didn’t trust them, either.
Chicago was a mess.
The men were all snakes.
From plots on the boss, to a daughter he kept out of sight only long enough to be brought out in the open and paraded like a prize on the night of her engagement. And that was before he touched the topic of drugs—why was her slave feeding her pills?
“I need information on something related to the Yazovs,” Roman finally settled on saying.
Marky instantly tilted his head to the side like a puppy might for a rolling ball in his owner’s hand. “Like the men, or like a Yazov, because—”
“Marky.”
Roman’s sharp warning wasn’t enough.
“You don’t mean, Dima, right? That fuck is worthless, Roman. Don’t get into another pissing contest with him—you’ll still win it, but you already know you won’t like the prize.”
Goddammit.
He was seriously started to regret his previous take on having Marky in Chicago.
Roman scowled, saying, “I was actually talking about Karine Yazov. Maxim’s daughter.”
“He has a daughter?”
He almost laughed.
Except it wasn’t funny.
Roman just nodded instead, not wanting to make Marky’s shock into a big deal. He’d already figured out not a lot people knew about Karine. But why? That was the real question. There was no real reason to hide a beautiful woman who was clearly of age away from the rest of the world. Even the most controlled mafia daughters had lives outside of the confines of their father’s homes.