Roma Queen (Roma Royals Duet Book 2)

by Callie Hart

  “Don't worry,” he says, pulling at the collar of his jacket. “You don't need to leave. You and Pasha are more than welcome to stay. I'll be by later to collect a few things.”

  “Wait!” A cyclone of questions are whirling around inside my head. Since we arrived at the Rivin camp, I haven't had a chance to ask anyone anything... Aside from Shireen and Shelta, Archie’s the first member of the clan I’ve engaged in conversation with since Pasha and I descended into the glen. I take a hurried step forward, calling after him again. “Archie, wait. Can I ask you something?”

  His dark, sharp eyes are displeased as he meets my gaze. “You and your questions, Gadje. You're going to ask the wrong person the wrong thing one day. An inquisitive mind will only get you into trouble around here.”

  I point blank ignore him. I've had enough warnings from these people to last me a lifetime, and I'm absolutely fucking sick to death of no one being straight with me. “Tell me about Lazlo,” I demand. “What kind of man was he? What kind of human being?”

  I couldn't really give a shit about Lazlo, what he was like or how he interacted with the other members of the clan. Even uttering his name makes me feel dirty, but I need to understand him to figure out his motives. If I can do that then perhaps I can predict what he's going to do next.

  Beneath the scruff of his beard and his wiry, steel-grey eyebrows, Archie turns a startling shade of crimson. “Lazlo was a con-man. Took what he could from whoever he could. He was toxic. Poisonous. I said it at the time, clear and loud, and I'll say it again now. That man should never have been allowed to join our clan.”

  “Wait. So, Lazlo wasn't born into the clan?”

  “He was not.” Archie confirms. “Neither was I, but at least I came from traveling stock. I understood the clan’s ways. Lazlo knew our traditions, but he never really understood what it meant to be a part of this Rivin clan. He had no respect, and no will to learn.”

  “Where did he come from, then?”

  Archie lets out a stiff, tight snarl of humorless laughter. “Lazlo was a gadje. He was an outsider, just like you.”

  Thirteen

  ZARA

  Archie’s long gone by the time Pasha arrives with our breakfast in hand. I tell him about my run-in with the old man, and Pasha nods knowingly when I mention the coin.

  “He's had that thing forever. Probably lost his shit when he realized it was missing. Someone probably palmed it when he was bartering with you. It's never been easy to get information out of him. He's a great guy, heart as big as an ocean, but he's a watcher. A listener. Ask him for information and it's like trying to get blood from a stone.”

  He has no idea how true that statement is. The night of the fair I was ready to launch myself at him for being so difficult. I'm not really thinking about Archie anymore though. I've moved on. Now, all I'm really concerned about is the information.

  “He did tell me about Lazlo. Did you know Lazlo was an outsider?” I ask. “Archie said he was like me.”

  Pasha bites into a slice of toast. He chews quickly and swallows. “Yeah, of course. Everyone knew. He was accepted into the clan, but that didn't really make much of a difference. He was weird, and people have a long memory here. You can be accepted into the clan, but some people will never forget you weren't born into it. To some, you will always be a gadje no matter what.”

  No surprises there. I'm pensive, lost in my thoughts as I eat the plate of eggs and bacon Pasha brought back from Shireen’s for me. Everything tastes like ash in my mouth, and my mind is reeling. “How long do you think he'll wait?” I ask. “What if he doesn’t know the clan moved on? What if he's been calling that payphone outside my apartment for the last twenty-four hours and he's losing patience? If anything happens to Sarah, I ...”

  Pasha drops his half-eaten toast onto his plate and gets to his feet, moving across the small space of the vardo. He's pulling me to him the next second, crushing me in his arms. “He knows. Don't worry. He's a fucking psycho. I can guarantee you that he's been spying on the clan ever since they arrived in Spokane. He's probably been watching them for weeks. There's not a single doubt in my mind that he knows exactly where we are and that you and I are here with the clan. He won't do anything to Sarah until we’ve done what he asked me to and we’re back in Spokane. He's waited three years to exact his revenge. Three years, drawing this out when he could have undoubtedly hurt me the moment the clan left Washington. He didn't,though. He's been waiting, savoring this moment. The very last thing he's going to do is lose his cool in the space of twenty-four hours and throw away his only leverage.”

  I think back to Lazlo’s last phone call, and I can’t help but shiver. Pasha caught him trying to assault Leo. Pasha was the one who took a knife to Lazlo's gut and nearly killed him, so it makes sense that he’d be angry with him, but Lazlo insinuated that he’d been watching me for some time, too. That he’d been pulling strings in my life, for reasons unknown. I’ve lost hours since that call trying to figure out what he could possibly have meant.

  What I could possibly have done to upset him or earn myself his attention? None of it makes any sense. I've never had any interactions with the Roma people before. Aside from having really shitty, useless parents, my life has been fairly ordinary up to now.

  If I’d been in Pasha's shoes when he stumbled into that vardo and found Lazlo attacking Leo, I would have done exactly the same thing he did. I would have picked up whatever weapon I could find at the time, and I would have used it on him, no doubt about it. I wouldn't have hesitated. I wouldn't have flinched. I don't for one second think that Pasha did the wrong thing. The truth is, I wasn't there that night. I didn't pick up a weapon and use it against Lazlo. I've never done anything that might make someone seek revenge against me.

  So, why then, would this man be so invested in connecting my life with Pasha's? The sheer depth to this mystery is mind-boggling to me. I will find no peace until I’ve discovered the truth and we have taken Lazlo down. I've done my best to avoid thinking about how we’ll accomplish that.

  First, we need to track Lazlo down and stop him from hurting Sarah, but then what? What happens when we have him disarmed and secured, unable to inflict any more damage upon the people of Spokane?

  Pasha and I are so different in so many ways. He's a fighter, a brawler. He is infinitely gentle and careful with me, but there is an undeniably dangerous edge to him. He won't hesitate to hurt Lazlo again if he thinks the man poses a threat to anyone he cares about. Will I be able to stomach that? To witness Pasha hurting someone out of rage, or anger, or in the name of justice?

  There’s a part of me that I don’t even want to acknowledge right now. A frightening, dark, menacing shadow that seems to have fallen over me, preoccupying my thoughts day and night. What if I want to hurt Lazlo? What if I want to punish him for what he’s done?

  Working as a dispatcher for so long, I have always had complete faith in the police department. I've always respected their authority and the need for law and order, but this monster killed a little boy, and he involved me. If I hadn't been the one to take Corey Petrov's call then perhaps I’d feel differently, but I heard the fear in Corey's voice. I felt his sheer terror as if it were my own, and there’s no denying that now.

  I return Pasha's hug, digging my fingers into his back as he holds onto me. I can't help but think it. If Lazlo was on his knees in front of me, and I had a gun in my hand, would I be able to stop myself from pulling the trigger? Would I be able to show him mercy, or would the fire in my blood demand that I take action?

  Fourteen

  ZARA

  God only knows where Archie's gone, but he doesn't come back to the vardo. Throughout the day, numerous other people come to talk to Pasha, and I’m left to pace up and down the wagon's narrow walkway, chewing on my thumbnails as I wonder what the hell is going on outside. Raised voices meet my ears a number of times, none of which belong to Pasha. At one point, I watch Cleo arrive, still in the overalls she wore last night, le
aning heavily against a long, lacquered staff. She casually props it against her body, giving it a purely aesthetic appearance. I see the way the woman shifts her weight and moves the staff from one side to the other, occasionally relying on it to keep her upright. She stays with Pasha for about an hour. They take it in turns to address a group of people who all seem deeply upset. Mostly men, their shoulders are tensed against the cold, collars popped up to protect their necks. Their eyes display their misgivings clearly for all to see. I don’t need to be standing out there in the cold with them to know they're not happy about the vote this evening, and what it could mean for them. I can't tell if they're for or against Pasha, but either way, they're nervous.

  At around three in the afternoon, Pasha disappears to the gathering hall with most of the other clan members. He doesn't ask if I want to join him, and I don't offer. I have no place in the clan, and have no business being present when they discuss their politics. Instead, I remain inside the vardo, watching the snow as it begins to fall again, wondering how the hell we're going to get back to the parking lot where Pasha left the Mustang. Regardless of what happens with the vote tonight, we're going to have to get back to Spokane pretty damn soon, and we won't be able to do that if we have to hike back the way we came in. Like Pasha said earlier, the snow has obliterated every single landmark, and the world is a blank, white canvas, nearly two-foot-deep in snow.

  I watch out of the vardo's little round windows as people begin to carry large stones into the center of the Rivin camp. An area of ground has been left free of vardos and trailers, and one after the other, members of the clan hulk huge rocks on their shoulders, dumping them onto the ground in the snow.

  After an hour or so, the pile of rocks is about five feet high, and a tall man with a bushy mustache begins to direct people, having them shift the rocks one by one to lay them on the ground in a circle. Pretty quickly, it becomes obvious that they’re building a fire pit. They bring in firewood next. God knows where they get it from, but it's pre-chopped and dry, which means they must have had it stored somewhere overnight at least. The sun’s beginning to go down when they finally light the tinder and bundle it inside their purposefully stacked pieces of wood. In no time at all, the fire is blazing, leaping up to meet the dusky early-evening sky, and the snow in the clearing begins to melt. My frustration levels peak at around 6 pm. Pasha still hasn't returned, and I have no idea what's going on anymore. I'm beginning to feel like a spare part.

  Perhaps I should have stayed at home in the city. At least in my own apartment I could be doing something useful, researching on the internet, or going door to door in my building, asking if anyone saw Sarah with a man two nights ago. Fuck, I could be doing my damned laundry. Even housework would beat this waiting around, not being able to do or accomplish anything. I feel fucking useless.

  It's pitch black outside when a rap comes at the vardo door. Pasha left to get us breakfast this morning and told me not to answer the door, but he's been gone for well over six hours now, and I am sick and tired of wearing a hole in the floorboards, doing nothing but twiddling my thumbs.

  I answer the door, and I'm met with a wide, shit-eating grin and a fluorescent orange jacket. It's Leo, the kid from the Midnight Fair, the teenager who tried to flirt with me when I first went down those subway stairs with Garrett and everything changed. He is also the boy Pasha caught Lazlo trying to assault.

  “Ha! I knew I'd see you again,” he says as he bustles past me into the vardo, stomping his feet against the floorboards and knocking off the layer of snow that cakes his shoes. He's taller than I remember, an inch taller than me, in fact. His hands are bare, bright red, his knuckles almost purple from the biting cold. He claps them together as he moves to stand in front of the wood burner, amusement pouring off him as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Quite a stink going on out there,” he tells me, laughing softly. “They're all bitching and moaning, complaining that an outsider shouldn't be here for one of our most private, important rituals. They're all being fucking ridiculous, if you ask me. I, for one, am glad you're here. It's about time my uncle found himself a beautiful woman to settle down with.” He blushes as he gives me his compliment, and I almost feel the need to hug the poor boy.

  “Pasha sent me down here to collect you. They're going to be starting the voting soon. Patrin and his boys are already gathered by the fire. Shelta will be down any second. If I were you, I'd put on a couple more layers. Did you bring anything warm with you?”

  Luckily, I did bring a down jacket with me. The layer fits nicely over my sweater and underneath my jacket. Leo chats amiably as I get dressed, wittering on about the arguments that are taking place all over the camp. He tells me that his friend, a girl named Anya, has been crying all morning because her mother had been promising her that Pasha would come back and marry her for the last six months. Apparently, the poor girl is beside herself. Leo seems to think the whole thing’s funny, though.

  “She's sixteen-years-old. Hasn't even finished her GED yet. I don't know why the hell she thought Pasha would be interested in her. Her mom, Kitty, is the real problem. She married into the clan. She still holds to some of the old ways. Kitty keeps telling Anya that she'll die an old spinster if she doesn't find a man this summer. How fucked up is that?”

  I have to agree with him. When I was sixteen years old, the very last thing I was thinking about was finding myself a husband. Jesus, I wasn't even really thinking about boys back then. Lacrosse, volleyball, getting my driver's license, hanging out with my girlfriends. The boys in my year at my high school weren't even on my radar yet. They were all pimple-faced morons with bad breath, though, so that obviously played a part. If an insanely attractive, handsome older guy like Pasha had been on the scene then I probably would have been very interested.

  I’ve fooled myself into thinking that I'm ready to step outside; the icy blasts of air that blustered their way into the vardo every time Pasha came or went should have primed me for the weather. But now, stepping outside into the frozen glen, I realize that I’m dramatically unprepared.

  My coat, my down jacket, and my sweater do little to protect me from the driving cold. As Leo grabs my hand, dragging me across the clearing toward the huge fire that's now roaring into the night, it feels as though a thousand icy blades are knifing through my clothing, cutting through my skin and driving in between my ribs. It isn't just cold. It feels fucking arctic out here, though no one else seems to mind. The people gathered around the fire, wrapped up in their coats and hats, chat raucously with one another, laughing loudly and waving their arms around as they try to make their point.

  Eyes skate over me, some friendly, some not, as I weave my way through the bundled figures, following closely behind Leo. A whispered, hissed susurrus follows in my wake, and I begin to wish that I'd stayed inside the vardo. I could keep my head down, keep my eyes on the ground, and hope that nobody notices me, but that would be futile. Even in the dark, my hair is unbelievably bright, unbelievably red. Even with my hood up, it's pretty hard to miss. We find Pasha standing at the edge of the fire next to Shireen, who has a small child balanced on her hip.

  The little girl's hair is dark, black as ink, but there's no denying that she's Shireen’s daughter. She shares the same features as her mother, the beautiful almond-shaped cat-like eyes, the slim upturned nose, and the same heart-shaped face. The little girl squeals, hiding in her mother's hair when I smile at her. “Don't believe the shy as a church mouse act for one second,” Shireen says, laughing. “Lord knows what's gotten into her. Give her five minutes and she'll be raising hell. Just you wait and see.”

  Pasha's eyes haven't darkened one bit from the arrival of nighttime. If anything, they're even brighter than usual, their pale green hue seeming to glow as the light of the fire hits them and refracts. Slowly, he smiles, brushing a strand of hair back behind my ear. His face is full of so many emotions as he looks down at me, but when our eyes meet, all I see there is adoration
. Stepping closer to me, he snakes a hand around my waist and rests it in the small of my back, drawing me to him. His huge frame bows over me as he leans down and places his mouth next to my ear, then whispers, “Fuck me dead, Firefly. You're beautiful during the daylight but at night, with the glow of a fire on your skin, God, you look like a phoenix wreathed in flames.”

  I've never known a man to just say whatever the hell he's thinking, without caring if it makes him seem vulnerable. But there's such an innocence to Pasha sometimes. Perhaps it was his upbringing, but there's no guard to him. He did go to high school, therefore must have spent time around jocks and other testosterone-drunk teenaged boys. Shit, he fights in a cage for a fucking living. But even that doesn't seem to have hardened him to stone. When he whispers things like that to me, so reverently, as if he's making a confession, there is no embarrassment. No shame. My beautiful, open, honest Pasha, who wears his heart on his sleeve. He is a breath of fresh air. A revelation. I wouldn’t have him any other way.

  I lean my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes tightly. He plants a tender kiss against my temple. “I hope you're ready, Firefly,” he tells me. “This is probably going to get messy. According to Patrin, my mother’s losing her goddamn mind right now.”

  I don’t know what I need to be ready for. I have no part to play in the theatre of this evening’s ritual. I’m nothing more than an unwelcome bystander, a gadje, who has absolutely no right to witness the Rivin people choose their new leader. Does he think there might be trouble for me if he doesn’t win? What happens to him if he doesn’t win? I already have a pretty decent idea what will happen to Sarah, and it doesn’t even bear thinking about. But my own fate? Pasha’s? That remains to be seen. I’m just hoping we won’t be spurned from the camp, forced to leave in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snow storm no less, with the freezing cold wind clawing at our backs.