by Bethany-Kris
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” came a dark voice, and a low chuckle from within the shadows.
Too close to him, really.
Roman blinked into the darkness, attempting to move if only to settle the swelling nausea. He quickly discovered that his wrists were tied together—stretched high over his head, the rope connected to a chain wrapped around a wooden beam.
His toes grazed the ground.
Barely.
Like an animal ready to be skinned, he hung there, helpless. Roman tried not to panic—he did. It didn’t work.
Fuck.
This was the end.
This was how he would die. After every stunt he pulled over the years—all the outrageous shit he managed to do, and the trouble he found time and time again ... Roman was going to die like this.
Jesus Christ.
Sorry, Papa.
His ma, too.
They didn’t deserve this.
“Down here,” came the murmur.
Roman tilted his head down, finding Maxim’s face staring back from down below. His brain was beginning to connect the dots—painfully so.
Maxim sat on his haunches, right in front of Roman’s feet. A smoky cigar rested between his fingers in one hand, and a baseball bat waited in the other.
For some fucked up reason that Roman couldn’t decipher, the man was shirtless. All his tattoos were on full display, the story of a high ranking bratva vor inked across a canvas of sweat-dotted skin.
Maxim had clearly taken liberties with the baseball bat before Roman even regained his consciousness. Why else were his ribs on fire?
“The fuck is this shit?” he managed to groan. “What did I—”
His words cut off from the dryness in his throat and mouth that had his muscles closing around the sound trying to escape. He wouldn’t ask for water when, given his current state, it would be a sign of defeat to a man like Maxim.
“You know exactly why you’re here,” Maxim said as he eyed the cloud of exhaled cigar smoke. It filled the darkened space with the sharp, bitter stench of tobacco fog and only made Roman’s ribs throb more when he had to breathe deeper through the smoke. “You should have kept your hands to yourself.”
Of course.
Why wouldn’t it be about Karine?
“How long?” Roman managed to ask.
How long did he know?
Maxim smirked, but it only felt cold when he replied, “Does it matter—you’re lucky I left you alive for this long, no?”
No, but it gave him an answer all at the same time. Maxim allowed him to fall into a false sense of security, leading him to believe he suspected nothing for days about his daughter’s involvement with Roman. That whole time—he was planning.
This, apparently.
Strung up to a beam, held accountable by a baseball bat, in what appeared to be a basement of some kind.
Roman almost respected Maxim for that. Except he knew enough now about the man’s life and business to confidently say he didn’t deserve any of his respect. Not when he treated his daughter as nothing but currency.
Flowers shouldn’t be hidden from the sun.
They wilted.
“Didn’t your father teach you loyalty?” Maxim asked, the cigar resting at the corner of his mouth while he drummed his fingers to a bent knee. “Loyalty to the boss? The respect of it all—any of it?”
As far as Roman could tell, no one else waited in the shadows. It seemed like it was just him, and the boss. Maxim stood, then, slowly stretching to his full height. He took a moment to pace back and forth in front of his captive’s stretched form.
“I’d at least like an answer,” the man said.
Fine.
“You are not my boss,” Roman replied, knowing what it would likely earn him. Still, he wanted it clear—all of this. “And you're not my father.”
As he expected, that wasn’t the answer Maxim wanted. He lunged for Roman, lifting the bat to crash it down on Roman’s head, but he stopped at the last second.
Stepping back to look at him one more time, Maxim shook his head, the disgust thick in his tone. “Good thing—had you been my son, I would have castrated you for doing that to another boss’s daughter. A lesson you wouldn’t soon forget. I might still.”
Well, then ...
Maxim continued on, seemingly unaware of the way Roman had flinched at the threat. “You would have gone far, Roman. You already were—you left me no choice here. All you had to do was do your job, stay loyal to my bratva, and keep your fucking nose out of my business.”
Roman let out a laugh that melted into a cough from the pain. “So, it’s not just about Karine.”
That earned him an arched brow, and a wicked sneer, saying only, “How long did you think your little friend could snoop around—asking questions he had no business asking—before word got back to me?”
Fucking Marky.
To be fair, it wasn’t his friend’s fault. Marky only did what Roman demanded—he’d known the risks when it came to digging for information surrounding the Yazov family. Back home, no one would have said a thing when Roman showed up asking for details.
Surprise.
He still wasn’t in New York.
Apparently, Roman forgot to act like it, too.
“How did you find out about us, then?” Roman asked, each breath and word measured to ease the pain.
It was the only thing left now. Everything else Maxim said was true—no point in denying it. He did fuck his daughter, and snooped around the bratva’s business. Roman played where he had no business being. He wasn’t loyal to them beyond paying his dues.
Maxim wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, the bat swinging with it as he swiped away sweat. Roman got a whiff of that sour stench from where he was hanging, and it made him wonder how long the man had been swinging before he woke up.
The double vision, aching ribs, and constant throbbing said more than Roman cared to know.
“It doesn’t fucking matter how I found out,” Maxim said flippantly, waving that sweaty hand and bat high. “Nothing you say will change my mind about tonight.”
“This is the punishment for sleeping with your daughter?”
“You think a few cracks from a baseball bat is what you get for fucking her? You’re going to die tonight, Roman Avdonin. I hope it was worth it.”
“My father—”
“Won’t forgive me,” Maxim interjected with a nod, “but he will understand. An unfortunate byproduct of your choices—I’ll lose my only friend.”
He actually sounded sad about that, pained.
Roman still wouldn’t apologize.
What difference would it make?
With only a push of the bat’s tip against his chest, Roman’s ribs sent agony ripping through his body and straight up his spine. The groans that left him were inhuman—the sound a wounded animal might make as it lay dying. The action sent him swinging from the pole, back and forth, softly. The pain was still unreal, and only got worse with every slow second.
Maxim wasn’t oblivious to Roman’s plight, and in fact, smiled at the sight in front of him. Proud of his work, clearly.
“There has to be something else,” Roman added, teeth clenched.
He needed to work through the pain to get to the truth. That was the thing he hadn’t missed in all this—what he bet Maxim didn’t want him to point out.
Maxim said nothing in reply, but his gaze hardened.
“It has to be more than Karine, right?” he asked the man, his breaths coming in short, hard bursts. “More than me asking questions. It has to be.”
“No, actually.”
Bullshit.
“You wouldn’t kill the me over that. You wouldn’t risk what my father will do to you for that. At least have the balls to tell me—”
“You don’t get to demand anything from me.”
“Not really great at doing what I’m told, or haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Yeah.
&
nbsp; His arrogant nature just had to go and show itself at the worst possible time. This time when Maxim took a step toward him with the bat raised, Roman had no doubt there would be nothing to stop the swing from landing against its intended target.
His fucking skull.
The first one wouldn’t kill Roman, they both knew that. However, a few more blows from that bat certainly might. Or ... did the man intend to leave him alive for a while? What was Maxim going to do, then?
That was the worst part—not knowing how this would end. There was still nothing Roman could do about it.
His hands were literally tied.
And then he remembered ...
The plan.
The fucking plan.
How could he forget the plan?
TWENTY-ONE
“They’re going to kill you on the day of the wedding.”
The words left Roman’s mouth in the same breath that Maxim started to swing. He knew the man had heard him—the shift in the air was instant. That, and the bat didn’t land on top of his fucking head.
Maxim flinched, still holding the weapon high. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Quiet, but it still felt like a roar.
Roman shifted in his constraints, trying to ignore the way the rope bit into his wrists the longer he was forced to hang. His limbs ached the longer they stretched unnaturally, his muscles feeling like they were tearing under his skin.
“I said they’re going to kill you the night of the wed—”
The bat fell from Maxim’s hand, stopping him from saying anything more as he lunged forward, bringing his face right up close to Roman’s. Cold, hard eyes locked onto his. Seconds ticked by.
One.
Then, two.
Maxim only asked, “Who is going to kill me?”
Roman had to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes open, the pain and hard breathing threatening to take him under. Sweat dripped down his forehead, the beads down to the point of his trembling chin.
He was quite a sight.
No doubt.
Still, Roman hadn’t begged.
That counted for something.
“Who,” Maxim snarled.
The loud yell making Roman jerk against the rope. Even the chains rattled from his sudden movement. His captor waited, but the bat was still close enough for him to reach, though.
That couldn’t be forgotten.
Figuring the only thing that was keeping him alive was the fact he had something to say, Roman started to tell the man, “I overheard a conversation, Leonid and—”
Maxim spun away from him, scoffing hard. “Fuck them. Fuck the both of them. Leonid and Dima want to take a shot at me?” He turned back with a wild smile—maniacal almost—before he thumped his fist against his bare chest. The news didn’t seem to be, well ... news. “I’ll be right here waiting for them.”
Roman’s brows knitted together. No, it wasn’t Dima. He opted to keep that information silent, even if only for a moment longer, as he watched Maxim lose his calm. It was the first time he started thinking about who Leonid’s partner actually was. He heard him say the name Katina—hadn’t forgot it since. A name he didn’t know, and one no one in the Yazov Bratva used for any woman who was around enough to be talked about.
So, who was she?
And why didn’t the boss know about her?
“I did every fucking thing I needed to—made sure those two shits didn’t bite the hand that fed them,” Maxim said, facing Roman fully again. “My hand. Do they really think I agreed to this match because I want Dima as my son-in-law?”
Who cared?
All that mattered to Roman was that the baseball bat had been forgotten for now. That gave him a few more seconds to figure out how to keep Maxim distracted long enough to keep him talking—or for the man to allow Roman to talk.
Either way ...
“You arranged the marriage to appease them—why?” Roman asked.
Maxim’s gaze met his for only a moment before darting away.
At the chance to ask another question, Roman did. “Because you were expecting them to plot against you? Did you think you could get ahead of it that way?”
“I would have been surprised if they didn’t. I thought the marriage agreement would solve the problem before it began. Tie them to me in a way, yes? A win-win, if you will. Leonid would get what he wanted—his son married to a pakhan’s daughter.”
“Clearly, you were wrong. What he wants is to be the boss.”
Roman simply connected the dots, he hadn’t actually heard those words from Leonid—but it was the only thing that made logical sense. Maxim wasn’t denying it, either.
In fact, the man just stared at an empty spot on the wall behind Roman. He had another thought, then. A win-win, he’d called it. Like Leonid got what he wanted, and so would everyone else.
What did they get?
“And what about Dima?” Roman dared to ask.
Maxim startled at that, like he’d been shoved hard, as his gaze slammed back into a sore, tired Roman. “What about him?”
“What does he get from the marriage?”
“Karine. That’s what he wants. What he’s always wanted.”
But that meant having her, too. She would be his—under his control, Dima’s to possess in any way he wanted. Forever.
“And you’re willing to just ... what, hand your daughter over to a man like that?” Roman hissed through another wave of pain, but his anger was still clear in every single word that ripped out of his mouth. “Fuck you.”
Maxim turned his back to him at that statement, making Roman unable to see his face or expressions. Was he pissed off at the disrespect, or actually considering what was said between them?
Would it matter?
Roman still thought there was one person left in Maxim’s win-win equation that he hadn’t pointed out. The boss himself. Protection from a possible plot on his life certainly didn’t seem like enough when he could just cut out the middleman and kill the assholes if he couldn’t truly trust them.
What else was there?
“And what do you gain from this?” Roman asked.
Maxim looked over his shoulder at him, a gleam of wonderment coloring his expression as he stared at the beaten and bruised man hanging in front of him. The man who may have just saved his life. Did he realize that?
“Let me guess,” Roman choked out through another agonizing cough, “I bet you gain everything—you’ll finally be rid of her. Karine.”
There was a part of him that ached for her, too, but in a different way than the pain currently flexing through his body with the smallest movement. Sweet and naive Karine. She had clearly agreed to the marriage to please her father, on top of her other issues that had become abundantly clear to him, and she had no idea he was just using her as a pawn. She was nothing more than a small piece in a big game.
One she couldn’t play.
“She doesn’t belong to me. She doesn’t belong here.”
Maxim’s voice coated with hatred. The man’s disdain for his child stunned Roman for a moment. He couldn’t relate to that. At all. No matter what shit he’d done to his parents—to his father, specifically, a far better man than him—they still loved him. Not once had he heard them speak about or to him the way Maxim just did about his own daughter.
“She needs someone who wants her,” Maxim added quieter.
And that was Dima?
“She needs help,” Roman snapped back.
That wasn’t the response Maxim wanted if the way his burning gaze and red face turned on Roman was any indication. “And suddenly, you’re an expert? The fuck do I need your advice for—a privileged boy without an ounce of respect or loyalty?”
Even hanging like he was, battered and exhausted, Roman still bristled at the insult. He refused to rise to the bait, knowing good and damn well it wouldn't do anything for him to do so.
Instead, hoping the man would hear him this time, he said, “I can see enough t
o know she needs real help—probably a professional diagnosis of her condition, and the right kind of treatment. None of the medication you keep feeding her like candy is going to help. Not unless she gets seen by someone who knows how to handle her situation.” Roman briefly considered asking Maxim if he knew about Katee—that he suspected Karine and Katee were the same person. Even if one was seemingly a child, and the other, a grown woman. That Katee was an alter—an identity that fractured from somewhere in her mind, maybe to keep her safe or to deal with her situation. Whatever it was.
He decided to keep that piece of information to himself, just in case he wasn’t able to get out of there alive. If that happened, he wouldn’t be able to help Karine. And if her alter, Katee, was one of the ways she survived, then who was he to stop her from protecting herself?
Maxim scoffed, muttering, “I’m not taking her to a shrink. I don’t need some balding fuck with a degree on his wall to tell me what I already know about her. She is crazy. Has been for years. And yes, if someone wants her, and it works to my favor like this has, then I don’t see the problem.”
How?
God, how could he think like that?
Roman flinched, then, and not just because of the way his ribs burnt with pain. He couldn’t stand the sound of Maxim’s voice. Karine’s name on his lips. She was who she was—whether she was perfect or not shouldn’t matter to the fact she still deserved to be loved and cared for like every other human with a beating heart and a soul.
She certainly had those.
Or ... he thought so.
“So, you’re just going to hand her over to him. Like a weak man would—a scared man who doesn’t understand, can't comprehend, what they’re looking at when they see her. That’s what it is, right? You’re scared of her.”
It wasn’t even a question.
Roman didn’t need to ask what he now knew. Everything he had been missing was suddenly right in front of his face. He hated what he was looking at. The irony wasn’t lost on him, though. She terrified her father because she wasn’t okay by his standards, but clearly Maxim didn’t see it the same way. He didn’t see she was like a small kitten trying desperately to hide away from a big, mean world all at the same time. Did Karine even know the power she really had?