by Bethany-Kris
He had to give her that.
Somehow, Roman got the feeling that she didn’t know what role she had played in this scheme—if that’s what this had been—but if she did ... he would make her wish she hadn’t.
Roman tensed when the weight of the officer’s knee came firmer into his back, the pain spearing through his spine instantly. “I said fucking easy, asshole.”
The cop only laughed. “It’s going to be a long night for you, buddy.”
Stale breath wafted over his shoulder. He’d have given anything to be able to drive his fist through the man’s rib cage in that second.
Life didn’t work that way.
And this wasn’t his first rodeo.
Roman was well aware what a stunt like that could potentially cost him, and already, he could count the charges he was going to have piling up.
Anastasia was the one who still hadn’t got the memo to stay still, say nothing, and let the ball roll. Her unholy fit continued with the same cop who did his best to keep her contained on the floor.
“Let me go. You have to let me go! They will kill me.”
Her screams flew over the cops.
Unheard.
Not for him, though.
She’d mentioned her idea of freedom earlier, and the word was still lingering in the back of his mind. As the cops barked back and forth—waiting for their back-up down the block, apparently, yet another sign this had been a planned event—he turned to the screeching redhead at his right.
“You wanna be free?”
Anastasia sucked in a shuddering, sobbed, “W-what?”
He wasn’t going to be a parrot—didn’t have time for it, considering their circumstances. Under his breath, Roman told the chick, “Keep your mouth shut—say you were my whore. Picked you up in Odessa. You’ll get twelve months, max. Chicago ... Dima, none of them will touch you when it’s that long. Twelve months, and you can start over.”
Her wet, green eyes searched his, but there wasn’t anything left for her to find. Her red lips trembled like she was going to say something, and he was sure he saw her mouth thank you when the two cops gripping Roman yanked him up from the floor without warning. He didn’t fight being led out of the warehouse. He figured there was a cop car parked outside. Somewhere discreet on the side where he didn’t notice it when he zoomed past.
Like a fucking idiot.
The whole thing was a setup. He knew that now. Right from the Bugatti key, and Anastasia with the big tits and long legs to catch his self-indulgent eye. This was the reason why Dima was trying to dominate the conversation, determined to divert attention to the female on his arm and how desirable she was. He hoped to get on Roman’s nerves, to inadvertently challenge him in to falling for the redheaded bait.
The motherfucker had figured him out—and knew Roman would not be able to resist the car or the woman when he had something to prove.
Pride was a bitch.
Especially his.
The better question was why.
Roman wouldn’t waste time on being hit where he was weak—he only cared about the reason it happened in the first goddamn place. Those answers were going to have to wait. Unfortunately.
The grip of the police tightened on his shoulders as Roman whistled a happy tune, the cop car finally coming into sight. He knew that would infuriate them.
What did they expect?
“Knock it off,” the cop at his left muttered.
Roman continued instead, and celebrated a silent mini-victory.
Whatever they did next, well ...
He’d probably suffered worse.
FOUR
As another round of chills started to creep through Roman’s aching frame on the hard metal slab that was now his bed in the jail cell, he reminded himself that this was nothing he hadn’t done before. He had been in jail for minor shit over the years. Months at a time, even. Protection wasn’t something he concerned himself with, either. His last name guaranteed nobody with half a brain cell would or could touch him.
Not without dying for it.
He just wanted to be left alone.
It had been four days since his arrest, and he spent most of that time in his cell, staring up at the ceiling from his bed, blankly. At least, he was alone in the cell, but that was the only comfort he was allowed.
The effects of withdrawal had started rearing their ugly heads forty-eight hours into his incarceration. By three days, he was sure his neighbor in the cell next door to his was tired of hearing him pace as the headaches and shivers started. He could sense what was going to come. The puking. Fevers and chills for days. His heart already raced, but that would get far worse, too, until he was sure the organ might explode from the stress on it.
This was only the beginning.
Four days without the little baggies Marky supplied, and Roman was reminded all over again why he kept telling himself it was the last time every time he put the coke back down. Then, a fucking voice in his head that sounded a lot like himself would say he could handle it when he knew that white powder would make shit a whole lot better, and he’d be right back at it again. Still, he wasn’t new to withdrawal. He just needed to wait it out. Wait for his body to flush it, and then he would be fresh again.
He’d been here, done this.
Just not in jail at the same time.
The best thing he could do for himself was to stay out of trouble. At least for a few days until the storm had passed. It wasn’t like the officers in the jail would or could do anything to help with the symptoms—shit, they had active users in the jail cells who had drugs brought in for them to contend with. Somebody sweating out their withdrawal in a cell was a common sight.
He didn’t have to worry about confronting his family—his parents would never visit him in jail. His family weren’t traditionalist in following the bratva rules, but when police got involved, the rules and expectations were the same all across the board. Everyone stayed out of sight until shit was handled.
Demyan Avdonin and his wife would not be seen in a place like this, getting their photo taken and plastered across every rag in the city. It was attention the Avdonins didn’t need, and his father’s bratva couldn’t afford. He had just handed his parents one more reason to add to the growing pile of concerns.
He gripped the edges of the metal bed while waves of nausea rippled through his body with the next round of shivers. His jaw clenched, feeling the rise and fall of his insides, in an effort to hold back the vomit promising to spill his stomach contents.
Deep breaths.
One more.
He might be able to breathe through it. A few more minutes, and the shaking would hopefully stop. His skin was glazed, damp with sweat. The sweat seeped through the faded buzz of his black hair—greasy to the touch. That was the least of Roman’s problems.
He wasn’t sure if his last name afforded him a bit of dignity and respect from the officers in the jail, but the guards hadn’t forced him to leave for a shower. Or shit, maybe it was the opposite, and somebody was teaching him a lesson.
Fine.
It was well-learned.
The turning of a key in his cell door had Roman jumping up to sit on the edge of the bed. Bad move. He rocked himself back and forth, uncaring and not knowing who watched him from the door because that was the only way to keep himself from hurling his stomach contents on the floor.
Then, he looked up.
Fuck.
Through swimming vision, his grandfather, Anton, watched him from where he stood in the open passageway, slapping one of the guards on his shoulder. He even had a fucking smile on his face as he stepped into his grandson’s cell.
Roman should have known.
Visitation rules didn’t apply to the Avdonins.
Money talked.
Bullshit walked.
Anton was brought directly here. Despite the shaking and convulsing, it was instinctual for Roman to stand up. The respect of the matter, because his grandfather was in the roo
m, and nothing more. Something he had done from the time he was a boy, and despite being a twenty-seven-year-old man in a bit of a messy situation, it bore no effect on the respect he offered to Anton.
That, and a little bit of love.
Love made him stand, too.
In his seventies, one wouldn’t think that looking at his grandfather, Anton wore the age badly. In fact, he carried it quite well. Deep lines in his face and the gray that colored his jet-black hair gave his severe nature a bit more wisdom and color. He was feared by many, but growing up under his grandfather’s feet taught Roman one important thing about the man.
He was still just that.
A man.
“Roman, you look like shit, yeah,” Anton said when the guard stepped away from the cell, and out of his sight entirely. “Sit down, my boy.”
At least, he didn’t look worried.
That was a win.
Roman would take what he could get.
And then his grandfather had to go and say, “Well done—you’ve thoroughly terrified your mother.”
“Kick me when I’m down, Grandpapa.”
That’s how it was done.
Anton only shrugged.
Roman couldn’t stand the silence. “What are you doing here?”
He sat back down, but not because his grandfather suggested it or because he really wanted to. His knees were already giving up on him, and the floor had started to spin.
Goddammit.
“I’m admiring the scenery,” Anton said, a dark chuckle echoing with his words. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”
Roman let out a grunt that tasted like bile. “Okay, why are you here?”
“Can’t a grandfather visit his grandson in jail?”
“Not if he’s Anton Avdonin.” Roman tipped his head to the side, meeting his grandfather’s gaze as he uttered through chattering teeth, “We stay the fuck away from cops, always. A guy goes in, we work to get him out, but we don’t fucking touch him until he is. That’s what you always told me.”
And his father. Any bratva man that cared enough to teach Roman about their life. All of them. He knew how this worked. He expected nothing different for him because he was who he was.
So ...
“Why are you here?” he asked again.
His grandfather moved to stand against the wall, arms crossed over his wide chest. Like Demyan, Anton had that ability to scrutinize him and read him easily. Old souls, they had muttered between each other from the time Roman could remember. His father said they were all the same, just a little different. Anton never denied it.
Roman wondered how.
He had yet to figure it out.
“Are you going to ask me how they are?” Anton murmured instead of answering his grandson’s question.
Stay out of my fucking head, he thought.
Still holding onto that stupid pride, Roman replied, “I’m going to ask you what they’re saying about me, yeah.”
Anton sighed deeply, shaking his head. It should have bothered Roman more that he was becoming accustomed to the look of disappointment on his family’s faces. They thought he was out of control.
Hell.
They weren’t wrong.
“Your mother worries, anyway, but this—”
“She has nothing to worry about,” Roman snapped, refusing to let his grandfather even go there.
He wasn’t doing this. And certainly not here—in a jail cell with a guard that was probably still close enough to overhear their private conversation. He stood up too quickly, making his legs turn to jelly. For a few minutes, he’d almost managed to forget that his body was revolting against his mind.
A war raged inside him.
Could his grandfather see it?
“No, you’re right, Roman. Why would your mother worry—you’re perfectly fine.”
The sharp edge to Anton’s voice was the only thing that kept his grandson from thinking he was speaking to himself. “You’re in withdrawal.”
A laugh escaped Roman’s lips, and he rubbed his hand over his nose—a habit he hated. “I’m in prison. I’m bored. I was so close—that car would have pulled in three mil, easy.”
The harder Roman tried to brush his current condition off, the darker Anton’s face got.
“Listen to yourself.”
“Grandpapa, just—”
“You’re in denial.”
Anton rarely yelled, and he certainly wasn’t in the habit of raising his voice in public. But for a brief moment, he dropped the facade when his words snapped louder and felt like whips cracking down on a stoic Roman.
Never lose control, Roman.
Don’t let people find the parts of you that react—or the things you’ll react for. They’ll always hit you where you’re weak.
Those were Anton’s words, so for his grandfather to make time to visit him here, alongside his outburst, it didn’t mean anything good. Self-control was sometimes a very fickle thing for Avdonin men.
Roman was not the exception.
“I am fine,” Roman assured, his throat dry. “I just need a few days.”
“Your eyes look like they’re bleeding.”
“Do you want to sleep in this fucking joint, or ...?”
“You’re shaking. Has the puking started yet—the shits, maybe? God knows that steel toilet is going to be a lot harsher to sweat this round through than the cushioned seat in your bathroom at the loft, hmm?”
Right for the gut.
Like only his grandpapa could do.
Roman breathed through the pounding in his skull and vomit bubbling in his stomach, choosing his words carefully and letting them out slower than he cared to admit. “I’ll survive it. This is nothing. I’ve been through worse.”
“And yet, you keep insisting you don’t have a problem. Look at you.”
“My problem is that all of you expect me to be like—” Roman jammed his teeth together, forcing the words back down so he could mutter, “I know it’s bad.”
Anton raked a hand through his hair, staring at Roman with a blue gaze that matched his own. He hated the pity he found there when his grandfather looked him up and down once more. “Your hubris, my boy. How does it feel to arrive?”
“I—”
“You’ll have a reckoning for this. You’ll answer for it; you’ll sacrifice more than you want.”
Death, maybe?
If so ...
“I’ll welcome it with open fucking arms.”
At this point, what else did he have to lose? Their very conversation and the way it unfolded told Roman everything he needed to know. Anton’s chiding click spoke of his disapproval without him needing to voice it in another way, yet again.
Roman didn’t expect anything different.
What had he ever done to make him proud? He wasn’t Demyan. The perfect son. The perfect husband. He wasn’t always in control; constantly the unwavering pillar in the storm that was their life. He enjoyed the chaos more than he should, and he didn’t know how to stop doing that.
Anton had every reason to be proud of the man he had raised, while Roman was a whole other story.
“I don’t think you understand,” Anton warned, stepping closer to Roman once more.
“I think I understand you perfectly well, actually.”
Roman swallowed the lump forming in his throat, refusing to dig deeper into the emotions slicing at his surface. Instead, he stared into the eyes of a man he had grown up admiring. One he knew he would never be able to become—so he hadn’t even ever bothered to try. Not a single man who knew Anton could disrespect him, not if they truly sat down and allowed him five minutes to speak. He was that kind of man.
That was his legacy, and here was his grandson.
A car thief.
... with a drug problem.
What else was there to say?
“I’m sure you have some idea what this has done to your father,” Anton said after a moment.
“I can’t exa
ctly picture him crying for me, let’s be real.”
Anton’s eyes flickered with fleeting amusement, and the edges of his lips twitched like they might break into a grin. “I meant, the position you’ve put him in here. The Yazovs consider this as a mark of disrespect, and I don’t blame them. Had this been done to me when I was a boss, I would have strung you from the telephone wires by your intestines. You tried to steal from them. The son of the Avdonin Pakhan—you blatantly stole from them. The balls on you, Roman. Jesus Christ.”
“An opportunity presented itself to me. Tell me, in my position, you wouldn’t have at least considered doing the same.”
“But it’s not me sweating out my coke habit in this cell, is it?” his grandfather returned just as swiftly. “And you fucked one of their whores. One of Dima’s whores, no less. The good news for her is that information came from your friend—Marky—and it doesn’t appear as though they’re interested in chasing her through the system.”
Roman wished he cared.
Irritation flickered in Anton’s eyes at his grandson’s obvious disregard for the mistakes he had made. “But who the fuck cares, Roman, right? Are you even listening to what I’m saying to you? That position you put your father in—the Yazovs suddenly have demands.”
Wouldn’t it be just his shit luck in that moment for another wild wave of shaking and chills to overtake Roman. It was intense enough to knock him back, and he had to turn away from his grandfather. Just so he wouldn’t see the way his face twisted from the intensity.
“You think you’re going to be able to hide this from me? What this is doing to you?” Anton asked.
“I have nothing to hide.”
“No. No, you don’t.” When Roman faced his grandfather again, the man was clenching and unclenching his fists. “We let you go on for too long like you did. We’re just as much to blame.”
“You know they set me up, right? The whole thing was a setup.”
“Which you fell for,” Anton deadpanned.
“What do they want from us now?”
“You’ll see when you get out. I only came here to offer your mother some sort of comfort because your father absolutely refused.”
