by Bethany-Kris
Roman backed away from the two women, not at all satisfied that Karine was okay but knowing he didn’t have much of a choice but to leave her with someone who seemed ... accustomed to the scene in front of her. So to speak.
Neither of the women noticed him leave as he made his way around the back of the house. He didn’t want to go to the front of the house by walking through the party again.
It wasn’t his scene. The music was shit. The men had no fucking sense of humor. Hell, even the chicks who were milling around the place—serving as decoration—weren’t doing anything for him.
That was probably Karine’s fault. He was sure she had spoiled him with that strange encounter earlier looking like the very image of sin. That was, at least until he could somehow get her out of his system. His interest never stayed for very long; he tended to like that about it.
This shouldn’t be any different.
Right?
As Roman walked, he thought about Karine’s kiss. He could still feel her lips on his thumb, the soft imprint had yet to leave. He brushed his thumb against the palm of his hand, and it still felt warm from her touch.
He needed to dash her from his mind and move on with the rest of the night—he had enough shit to deal with already. Yet, something told him he wasn’t getting rid of Karine anytime soon. At least not from within the confines of his mind.
That place was a prison.
He planned to keep her captive in there just a little bit longer.
• • •
He would have liked to just slip away without being noticed. Too much had happened today, and he wanted to be alone to process it.
The loft he managed to procure in the city wasn’t nearly as big as the one he had in New York, but at least he had his own space and some sense of privacy. Although, with Josef hanging about to watch his every move, he wasn’t ever really by himself.
However, even though Roman wanted to get back to the loft, knock back a few shots of vodka and fall into a dreamless sleep, hoping he wouldn’t be dreaming of Karine—he knew he couldn’t just disappear. Not without taking his leave from Maxim who would be expecting it as a mark of respect.
These fucking guys.
All their pomp and circumstance had a way of pissing Roman off like nobody knew. He just didn’t see the point—or maybe he hadn’t grown up loving the same bratva they had, in a way. The men around him seemed to respect one's ability to make their own way—and mark on a city. He didn’t see how decades of mob tradition played in to how much money he could make in any given year.
He came from a different generation—or that’s what Demyan preached whenever Roman tried to explain that he just didn’t care to go through the same motions as every other man in their business. It just was what it was, he supposed. Did they want his dirty fucking money, or not? That’s always what it came down to.
Nobody ever said no, either.
It wouldn’t be the same for him in Chicago. In Maxim’s mind, he had taken the trouble of giving a fuck about Roman today by inviting him to the party in the first place. Roman was expected to return the gesture.
Once he made his way to the front of the house, he gathered himself enough to go back in and seek out the boss. Karine was still heavy on his mind. A part of him had to wonder if she was truly going to be okay in the hands of the older woman; a nagging thought pricked at the back of his mind, refusing to let go—she didn’t seem surprised at Karine’s state. It wasn’t the first time.
More concerning—did that mean it wouldn’t be the last?
Roman didn’t have a chance to consider it longer—the boss had noticed he had come to linger in the entry of the sitting room. He simply intended to wave a polite goodbye, but that didn’t seem like it was going to do.
“I’ll walk you out,” Maxim declared, jumping up from his seat in the middle of the room.
Instantly, all eyes turned to him as they walked out together.
This was definitely going to get people talking. Nothing good came from that shit. The bastards would bitch and moan about how their pakhan was giving the Avdonin suka undue attention.
They walked in silence together to the front foyer of the mansion where two great winding staircases grandly climbed the walls. Identical chandeliers hung all over the ceiling, casting the space in a glittering glow. Oil paintings hung in gold gilded frames. None of it really impressed Roman.
Disposable wealth being strewn around by a rich criminal boss who didn’t know what to do with all the money he had. Exactly the kind of lifestyle his mother was so adamant against leading. He could still remember the day his father learned Claire regularly donated hundreds of thousands of dollars every month to any charity she felt was worthy—she dared Demyan to order her to stop.
His father never did.
Maxim came to a stop at the front door, and turned to Roman with a small smile. “You did good by drinking with Dima earlier today, and I appreciate the effort, yes? I know the two of you had a rough start.”
Roman nearly laughed out loud at that.
A rough start was one way to put it.
He shrugged in response—what else could he do? He didn’t give a fuck about Dima and frankly, didn’t give a single shit about Maxim, either. He just needed to return to New York in one piece, get back to his life, and this was the only way to do it.
Maxim continued watching him with narrowed eyes, like he was waiting to see if Roman would slip up. So, he met the older man’s gaze and remained calm. Let him look—there was nothing there to see.
“Anyway, it’s been a good night, but I’m going to call it for now,” Roman said, making his intention clear.
He wasn’t interested in another chat—certainly not one of Maxim’s lessons like the one earlier with Dima and the drinks. He could do without that business again.
Maxim grunted under his breath and as Roman was about to head for the door, he grabbed his arm. Thick fingers dug into the bands of muscles that made up Roman’s forearm, yanking him closer to the boss.
He barely controlled the knee-jerk reaction of retaliating—clamping his molars down hard enough that he was sure they cracked under the pressure of his clenching jaw. It would be a mistake to pull away or even flinch. A show of weakness for Maxim to grab hold of. Roman had to show he was willing to be respectful, but at the same time—he wasn’t willing to be kicked around.
It was a difficult line to walk.
“I want you to understand that this morning was the first and the last time you will be speaking to my daughter,” Maxim explained, his smile gone entirely. His eyes, beady and blue in their intensity, nailed into Roman’s, as cold as could be.
His daughter?
Karine was Maxim’s daughter?
For fuck’s sake.
Shit started to make sense, then.
Now that Roman looked more closely, he could see the similarity in their eyes. Where Maxim’s were deep and icy, Karine’s were large and empty. However, they were the same shade of electric-blue.
Roman said nothing. He wasn’t sure yet if Maxim knew where Karine was at currently, or whether he was aware of their second encounter from just fifteen minutes ago.
“Karine spends most of her time in the background of my house, and my life, because that is where she belongs and where I want her to be,” Maxim explained, his voice dropping much lower than usual. Careful to make sure no one else might overhear. “What happened today was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.”
Talking about his daughter had an adverse effect on Maxim that Roman couldn’t understand. The words he used for and about her were unsettling, in a way.
Was he afraid of her, or did he just despise her?
Was he overprotective, or disinterested?
Roman couldn’t tell.
“If you’re smart, you won’t find yourself alone with her again,” he added, the threatening edge to his tone becoming unmistakable in Roman’s ear.
Maxim’s grip on his arm loosened a little, and Roman pulled away,
slowly, almost too gently. He didn't want to make any sudden movements, like a hunter wouldn’t want to startle his prey as he closed in on it.
The only problem with that?
Roman didn’t know if he was the hunter ... or the prey.
“I have no intention of turning that into a habit,” Roman told the man.
“Good. That is exactly what I want to fucking hear, hmm?”
Maxim dusted his hands, and took a step away from Roman, gesturing for the door as if he was free to go now, if he wanted. The conversation about his daughter was over even though Roman couldn’t shake it off as easily as he should.
Shit.
Like he needed yet another giant red flag that something was wrong with that woman, and this entire goddamn place. Something left him with a bad taste in his mouth, and it wasn’t from the liquor he hadn’t been allowed to refuse earlier. He was quickly starting to think that this was not a man who was just being protective of a beloved daughter. A darkness clouded over Maxim’s voice when he spoke about Karine, and Roman didn’t like it.
He didn’t like it one fucking bit.
“I’m sure you’ve already been reminded of tribute coming up in a few weeks, I’m expecting big things from you, Roman. Show them you’re supposed to be here, yes?”
Roman stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, inside which, his palms clenched into fists. He really didn’t need another fucking reminder of the upcoming tribute, or the story Josef had narrated to him earlier on the topic.
People thought he was stupid, or something.
What a joke.
Roman still didn’t have a crew set up for the chop shop gig. He didn’t have a client list that was ready to take cars from Chicago, either. He barely had the fucking resources to get it going currently. How was he going to make enough by the end of the month to make a monetary offering to the bratva?
“No worries—I’ve got it handled.”
Maxim smiled and nodded, satisfied. “And I’m sure you don’t need the reminder that you’re not here to make friends either, only money.”
“I’m just here to pay my dues.”
“Exactly. The day you stop being useful is the day you pay us some other way. Keep it in mind, young man.”
The friendly, fatherly tone that Maxim usually spoke to him with was gone. Fast. The one in its place was that of a ruthless pakhan—the boss. His seat had to be unquestioned; his authority would be crystal clear to everyone.
“I understand my position here,” he reiterated to Maxim.
He didn’t get a reply before the boss walked away.
Frankly, Roman didn’t really need one.
TEN
The relatively pleasant summer gave way to the wet weeks of end-July. Which only meant one unfortunate fucking thing—Chicago had started to remind Roman of New York. It was humid and messy, coloring the days gray and making him nostalgic for home in a way he hadn’t expected.
Given the fact that he didn’t know when he might be back in New York again, he should have been glad to be reminded of home. Hell, he might have been if today wasn’t such a crucial day.
Pacing up and down the warehouse, Roman debated whether to call Josef, and ask the man to join him inside. Even though Josef hadn’t explicitly admitted it, he waited outside in his car, watching and noting Roman’s every movement. Today was definitely the kind of day he could use some company—even if it was from a Yazov man who was being paid to spy on him, if only to keep him from talking himself crazy inside his head.
But he didn’t call.
He planned to keep as few people involved with his business in Chicago as was possible while he was forced to be here to work. Back home, he at least had a bit of a leg up where officials and cops were concerned—or he used to.
Here, though?
Here, he had shit.
Nothing.
He had to be careful. In every single aspect.
Still pacing along the bay doors inside the warehouse, Roman waited for part of the crew to return, driving the three, million-dollar cars they were supposed to hit.
The preparation and planning came together as the deadline loomed to the point where it was a now-or-never type of deal. He put together a team of people made up mostly of his old crew from back in New York, and a few new recruits directly from Chicago who came highly recommended in the car boosting scene from contacts he had in the business.
No fucking lie—Roman’s standards were high. They kind of had to be, though. He didn’t really have the time to mess around with people who needed him to hold their hand through how to follow an order, and definitely not with someone who didn’t know what to do with a wrench. The plan needed to be executed with perfection and precision. Roman was kind of banking his life on it. Literally. Considering he knew his whole future in Chicago and with the Yazovs depended on it.
Behind him—while he continued focusing on the forty steps it took him to cross from one door to the third at the other end—were neatly arranged portable car jacks, boxes of tools, and all other equipment they needed to breakdown the cars once they arrived. Part of the procedure was also to ensure everything was set up in such a way that it could all be packed and cleared out in under ten minutes if necessary.
Roman had learned the hard way, through past experiences, that he needed to make sure nothing could be traced back to them. It was possible that they may not even have those ten minutes to pack everything up. Every precaution was taken to ensure no serial number could be traced back to him or the bratva.
This wasn’t Brighton Beach.
The Yazovs would gladly throw him under the bus if they got busted, and step back while he landed his ass in prison.
Three luxury vehicles his crew had targeted today—each worth over a million dollars—would sell for triple that amount in auctions overseas. Roman also had a long list of contacts who would be able to get him in touch with exactly the people interested in the particular makes of cars he would have chopped up and ready to ship before the sun broke over the morning horizon.
Once Roman had the cars in his possession, moving them and selling them wouldn’t be a problem. That was the least of his concerns. The crew just needed to do their job, arrive safe and sound, and things had gone according to plan.
If they didn’t, he would have heard something by now from one of his people. It was relatively safe to say Roman could breathe easy—knowing the time on the clock across the warehouse assured him it was so—but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself just yet.
There weren’t too many perks of being fresh-faced in Chicago, honestly. Either way, he appreciated the ones that were sparsely available. One being that nobody knew him here, and no chop shop gig had been executed in a similar fashion in the recent past. Both things worked to his favor at the moment.
So, technically, the world was his oyster.
He didn’t have to worry about watching his back too much, at least not for the moment ... where the police were concerned. Nobody was here watching him expecting him to be doing what he was because his presence wasn’t a big thing in the area. He had the upper hand of taking the scene by surprise. Once the same cars were repeatedly stolen, once a pattern was established—the job would get tougher. He, and the team, would have to work a different game. One similar to the tricks they pulled back home.
For now, it was all cake.
With a cherry on top.
A shitload of money for three neatly packed vehicles that would be every collector’s dream. And it didn’t take them very much effort to nab the cars, either. It wasn’t just about having the right plan. Roman also needed to find the right team—to create the perfect combination of muscle and brain.
He achieved that task by building a crew of hackers, booster specialists, mechanics, and connected people who wouldn’t shy away from a high-stakes chase ... should it come to that.
Not only did the heist have to be executed perfectly, but the cars would then have to be dismantled and hac
ked in a way that would make transportation easier with minimal—if any—damage. Then, there was the process of putting everything back together, so one had to make sure the team it was delivered to overseas had a decent reputation for doing what they did. The last thing collectors wanted to see on their cars was wear and tear, or even any minor imperfections. They didn’t want to see a hint of the journey their prized possessions had undertaken to reach them. The more damage there was to fix, the less a car made when delivered and auctioned.
All in all, Roman had a good feeling about the job. He looked at the clock again, and then double-checked the time he knew was right with what it showed on his watch, the diamond bezel on the Rolex winking under the warehouse’s bare bulbs overhead.
Ten more minutes, and the crew would be arriving at the warehouse. So, when the phone in his back pocket rang, Roman about jumped out of his skin.
A low fuck fell from his mouth after he’d fished the phone out, and checked the screen to see his father’s number flashing.
Perfect timing.
Roman had a hundred reasons not to answer the call, starting with the fact he wasn’t in the mood to talk with Demyan and ending with his current situation. But because he knew he had probably pushed his father’s patience far enough, he swiped the green phone icon across the screen. He didn’t even put the device to his ear, instead opting to keep it on speakerphone.
Demyan didn’t wait for a greeting before saying, “Son.”
“I’m kinda in the middle of something, I’ll call you back.”
“Hmm, nyet. You’ve ignored my calls all week. And look, I finally have you on the phone. Let’s talk.”
Roman glanced at the warehouse shutters, and then his watch again. Nine minutes. He was terribly good at keeping track of time, but that didn’t stop the urge to keep checking. He barely focused on what his father was saying.
Demyan didn’t miss it. “See, and you’re not even listening now. Why the distraction?”
Roman sighed, raking a hand through his hair. This was not the time to have a deep discussion with his father, however, he welcomed the distraction.
