by Bethany-Kris
The last thing he was able to bring to mind was going to the place where he knew they’d hand a baggy over to him with no questions asked. Just the sight of his face alone would guarantee him his drug of choice.
He was still Little Odessa’s Devil, after all.
Spoiled beyond rotten.
Unquestioned, and unchallenged.
After that, everything was a haze.
Did Marky show up? Yeah, he did remember that. Everything after, though? Roman couldn’t be sure.
Did they drive around for hours?
Did he steal a car?
Who the fuck knew.
Roman couldn’t remember anything.
Somehow, he’d ended up in his own bed in his loft. The same one the cops had raided in Odessa before he’d been sent to Chicago. Fuck, he missed that place like nobody knew.
For that, he was grateful to Marky. This was exactly the reason why he’d texted his friend. Even if the prick did feel some kind of way about Roman’s drug use, he’d still watch his back no matter what.
Sitting up in bed, Roman scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t trimmed his beard in days, leaving his face dry and rough under his touch. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he took a shower or changed out of these clothes.
Had he put them on yesterday?
Or the day before?
They reeked of alcohol and cigarettes either way, and he couldn’t ignore the disgust he felt at himself as he tried to pretend like the room wasn’t spinning in his line of vision.
Jesus Christ.
Roman didn’t bother to move at that point. He needed several minutes before he could get out of bed, and face the damn day.
It was what it was.
In the shower—he stood under a steady, beating stream of hot water. It stung his skin, pinking it from the heat, just the way he liked it. When he placed his hands on the cold tiles, his knuckles hurt, reminding him that unfortunately ...
Well, he was still very much alive.
You can fix that, you know. It doesn’t matter when you’re high. Nothing matters when you’re high, Roman.
Just like that, his monster was back. Gnawing on his shoulder, clawing at the back of his brain. He thought about the sweet relief a pill would bring—one that would take away the pain, and keep the high going. By tonight, he could take a little something else to keep him from falling asleep if he didn’t want to dream.
It would be easy.
A little something—anything—to keep his mind off the fact that he still hadn’t spoken to Karine.
Once out of the shower, he changed into fresh clothes, but didn’t bother to take the time to trim his beard or even wrap his swollen hand that ached even more when he was out of the heat.
Roman’s mind was on one thing—making it all go away.
But the smell coffee halted those plans, for the moment, and he stepped out of his room, and peered down the hall. Through the glass wall that made up the loft of the garage, he could see Marky down below.
“You want some coffee?” he called up when he noticed Roman descending the stairs.
“What time is it?”
“Too late to wish you good morning,” Marky replied.
At least, his friend was less grumpy than he had been the previous night.
“I’m heading out, actually,” Roman declared, still doing up the buttons on his shirt.
“To where?”
“You my warden or something now?”
Marky wouldn’t approve of the pills he planned to go find, but at the same time, Roman didn’t feel like he owed the man shit. He owed no one nothing.
Except Karine.
“I need you to stay on track,” Marky said. “For Karine’s sake. You remember? Your wife who is currently receiving treatment for her mental health condition. A choice you made for her, Roman.”
Hearing her name was like a punch in the gut.
He didn’t need the reminder.
God.
“She doesn’t want to talk to me,” he said under his breath, leaning against the railing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Give her time.”
“She fucking hates me. What part of that do you not understand?”
“The part where you seem to forget you’re not a child, I guess. You don’t get to just act out because you’re mad or hurt. She needs help. You don’t. You have the ability to help yourself. So just fucking do that, man.”
Marky stood steady and calm as he delivered those words—a final blow—to Roman. He wouldn’t be able to physically stop him from going out and doing whatever the fuck he wanted if it came down to it, but he also didn’t need to.
He’d called Roman out—that was more than enough.
Rightfully so, too.
It pissed him off like nothing else, but Marky made damn good points. Roman glared at his friend for a full minute before he walked over to the coffee machine, and poured himself a cup.
NINE
Demyan found himself lost in his thoughts and unwilling to open his eyes after waking from a night of restless, non-existent sleep because it meant a new day. Of uncertainties, of exhaustion ... of worry.
He wasn’t that man—decades of position and power had allowed him an arrogance a man like him needed to be who he was. So, when he found himself worrying, well, it was hard to swallow.
There was too much to do.
Who could sleep?
With Dima and his men making their presence known in New York, Demyan moved to protect his assets and keep the business running smoothly first. He hadn’t spoken to Leonid yet, the man who was supposed to have taken over as the new Chicago boss, despite Demyan’s many efforts to reach out.
The man’s son, on the other hand, was apparently freely raging around New York—and God knew where else—like a maniac, without reprise from his father. None of this shit would have happened with Maxim as the boss of his organization.
If their two families ever encountered a problem in the past, they would have met up in person and talked it out. That came with mutual respect, but Demyan supposed they had all lost that façade a long time ago.
Maximum outcome with minimum casualty—that was how he liked to run the show, but with a flock of headless fucks running around doing whatever they wanted ... Demyan doubted this would end well.
When did it ever?
“Are you awake?”
He heard his wife’s soft voice beside him and finally opened his eyes. Other than his children, Claire was the only person in the world he’d start his day for when he didn’t particularly care to.
The effects of exhaustion in his limbs from only a few hours of sleep made them heavy and needing stretched. When he did, eyeing his wife standing beside their bed, the rushing blood made him lightheaded. It wasn’t just his body that was tired, but his mind, too.
Mental and physical.
He couldn’t fix one without fucking with the other.
“I am now,” he murmured to Claire.
“Sorry, I made you some French toast and didn’t want it to go cold. I wasn’t sure how long you’d want to sleep.”
Demyan sat up in bed, letting the soft cream-colored sheets fall down his bare chest while his wife placed a tray on the bed. With a gigantic mug of coffee in her hands, she slipped in beside him under the covers.
All it took was her side-long look tossed his way, and Demyan could tell she had something on her mind. Nearly three decades of marriage with this woman, relearning what it meant to fall in love time and time again, gave him that privilege.
He had a pretty good idea what had his wife quiet, and yearning to talk.
“You’re thinking about the girl,” he said.
Demyan picked up a triangular piece of French toast, and inhaled the scent of vanilla and cinnamon sugar. His mouth watered. Nobody cooked like his wife.
“Our daughter-in-law, you mean,” Claire corrected, arching a brow.
At least, she was amused.
&nbs
p; “I knew he was taken with her, but I didn’t realize he would take it so far that he’d marry her,” he said.
Claire sighed, and sipped her coffee. “She’s a sweet girl who has endured a lot. If you ask me, she makes a nice addition to the family.”
“You like her.”
That’s what she should just say.
His wife only lifted one shoulder in reply to that, and then said, “More importantly, our son seems to love her.”
At one dark point in his life, Demyan would have said love wasn’t worth the pain that sometimes came with it. But he’d come far enough—or rather, lived long enough—that his scars had been numbed over the years.
And his wife helped.
With the love deal.
“She’s also a lot of work,” Demyan replied, then groaned around a bite of French toast that was worth waking up for. After chewing, because he knew damn better than to talk with his mouth full around Claire, he added, “He’ll be lucky to come out of this alive. Sometimes, I think you overlook what scares you to see what pleases you, sweetheart. You know that’s going to make reality harder to handle when it catches up, huh?”
The only unfortunate part of having tied himself to this woman for life was the fact that sometimes, Demyan was the only one who told her the harsh truth. Everyone else was too scared too—worried they might upset the one woman he’d likely kill for.
So, the task was always left to him.
It was what it was.
Demyan loved her enough to do it.
Claire said nothing, chewing on her bottom lip while she stared out of the window in their room. Letting him eat his breakfast in peace, Demyan was nearly halfway through his plate when she spoke again.
“I am proud of him, Demyan.”
He didn’t reply.
She shrugged, adding only, “I didn’t know if he was truly capable of it—but he can stand up for what and who he believes in, as long as it’s what he wants. That’s better than nothing, Demyan. At least he stands for something. And you’re right. Karine is a lot of work, but it looks like he’s the only one who makes her happy, so who are we, or anyone, to take it away?”
*
“He wants a meeting,” Pavel said.
Demyan, shuffling through the pages of the documents relating to a shipment of weapons he had to proverbially sign off on, glanced up at the sound of his spy in the doorway. “Who?”
He hadn’t been paying attention.
Work had to keep moving, too.
When Pavel started shuffling his feet from one to the other—he knew it, then. Demyan expected uncomfortable news. Older than dirt, Pavel had once been an enforcer for Demyan’s father but eventually worked his way into the highest ranks to become his boss’s best spy. Collecting money, or keeping an eye on all the men in the organization and reporting back if something needed handled. He knew the man well, and his mannerisms.
The feet shuffle meant bad news.
“Dima. He says he wants face time.”
Demyan cocked a brow—all this time Pavel had been trying to get a word through to Leonid in Chicago, or someone that would get New York a direct line to the boss, and Dima was the one who finally answered?
“Fucking Dima? What do I want with a pup?”
His youth was the only excuse Demyan could really give the prick, and feel like it might be justified. No man with any age or sense in this business cared to go on like Dima apparently did. Not unless there wasn’t another option.
There was almost always another option.
Demyan hated to think about it, but even killing Roman when he had the chance could have ended all of this. What reason would New York have had to keep the girl if the reason for her being there in the first place was dead?
But he hadn’t killed Roman.
And his warning rang loudly.
Was the asshole just having fun?
Pavel eventually shrugged at Demyan’s lingering, questioning stare.
“Where’s Leonid?”
“Apparently he’s not in New York,” Pavel said. “Nothing’s showing up anywhere—any associates of his in the state say he’s not been in contact.”
“Then, I’ll wait until he gets here,” Demyan replied, bored, dropping the papers down with a swoosh on his desk. “I’m not sitting down with Dima without his father.”
“Kinda seems like it’s not just associates here, boss. We don’t know where he is. Nobody’s seen him recently—even people in Chicago are whispering about it.”
That made Demyan pause.
“How recently? When was the last time anyone outside the immediate circle saw him?”
It wasn’t Pavel’s fault, but Demyan had never been known for his patience, and it was starting to show.
Shoot the messenger.
There was some truth to the adage, he thought, as Pavel eyed him warily.
“What is it?”
“Well, people say different things but—”
“Pavel, I’m fucking serious. Talk.”
“A common theme seems to be that he hasn’t been seen since the fire,” Pavel replied.
Demyan sat back in his chair, spinning around slowly as he tried to think.
Was that why Dima was doing all the work—his father had hidden away all this time, and there was no one to check the cocksucker for his behavior?
What was Leonid hiding from?
Or who?
Whatever he was—in their limited interactions through the years when Leonid served as Maxim’s second in command—Demyan had never viewed the man as weak or afraid. Not one to cower, he was like every bratva man that enjoyed using their special brand of intimidation to their benefit.
Why did he refuse to be in New York?
Why was he afraid to show his face to anyone?
“You can tell Dima to fuck off,” he finally said.
That was his final decision. It had to be, regardless of the consequences. Demyan didn’t know what game these men wanted to play with him, but he’d just made one that would force their hand either way.
Pavel’s jaw clenched at his boss’s command, knowing what the results of that choice would likely be. Dima would retaliate.
He’d have to.
A slight like Demyan’s, well, it was a personal offense—being refused a meeting with the boss.
“He wants a boss-to-boss meeting? Then the bastard better bring the boss over here first. That, or he gives me a legitimate reason why Leonid can’t be here.”
Demyan needed answers.
He wanted everything clear.
“I’ll communicate your decision through the man he sent,” Pavel said.
Demyan didn’t have the interest to go through the paperwork anymore, and the shipment of guns heading to Russia was the least of his problems. Maybe work could wait. He wanted to get to the bottom of a different kind of business.
More importantly, he wanted to know what really happened to Maxim.
“And while you’re at it,” Demyan threw at Pavel’s retreating back, his frustration making his voice gravelly, “Get in touch with the two agents from the FBI. Invite them back—tell them I wanna have a chat.”
*
Agent Packard and Agent Mahon stood with their arms crossed over their chests in silent reflection of each other. Demyan remained seated in his chair across from them.
Their hardened expressions seemed forced. Like they had a discussion before the two entered the home of the bratva boss. Perhaps about how they were going to present themselves to him, guessing by the postures?
It made him smirk.
They were still convinced they could somehow control the narrative, but Demyan knew better. The very fact these agents were willing to damn near ask how high when he said jump—or rather, let’s meet up—told him the truth.
They were looking as hard as he was.
Maybe for the same thing.
Likely for different reasons.
“I would offer you some vodka, but I’m not sure wh
at the FBI protocol is on the matter of drinking on the job,” Demyan said, deciding to keep things light at the start.
After all, he had no beef with them. The agents, and the bureau, hadn’t laid a finger on Demyan’s business as of yet, so what would be the point in causing trouble?
He knew they were still in their feelings about the fact that Roman hadn’t given away any information they could use—but hadn’t he helped them enough? He’d given them a different and more innovative direction to look in.
That was more than another man in this life would do for a cop.
At best.
“Why don’t we get down to business,” Agent Packard began.
Once again, he was the one taking the lead here, so Demyan focused his gaze on Mahon instead when he said, “You know I don’t do business with the FBI. Let me make one thing very clear to you, the only reason you’re here is because I want some information from you.”
Honesty was the best policy, right?
Mahon had to look away, glancing at his partner for direction. Demyan’s suspicions were confirmed in that moment. Still green around the ears. Was he a new recruit? How many years had he been engaging criminals of Demyan’s caliber?
Demyan smirked again.
“I’m sure we can help each other,” Packard replied.
“It depends on what you’re giving me, actually.”
“What do you want, Mr. Avdonin?”
“All the information you have on Leonid. Everything you know about Maxim Yazov. Preferably, anything about the two together that I would find useful, do you understand?”
Even though Packard managed to stare at him blankly, the way Mahon shifted his arms behind his back to clasp his hands told Demyan everything he wanted to know.
The FBI had uncovered something about Maxim they hadn’t shared publicly yet.
“And what are you giving us in return?” Packard asked.
Demyan leaned slightly over the table, weaving his fingers together with a bored shrug. He even shook his head, half disappointed, a bit apologetic.
“I apologize for the misunderstanding, gentlemen. I was under the impression that you understood what it means to keep an open conversation going with me. Or didn’t you get the memo?”
Packard still didn’t blink. “What makes you think that, Mr. Avdonin?”
