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 exactly 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.”
Right.
Demyan and his lines.
Roman didn’t want to give his grandfather the impression that he was desperate to get out, but he stifled the urge to ask when he would be released, or even ... when a lawyer would show up on his behalf. He opted to keep his damn mouth shut. This was turning out to be the perfect place for him to ride out the storm of withdrawal.
Considering everything.
Anton was already moving to the cell door, tapping on it lightly with his wedding ring before he looked over his shoulder at his grandson again.
“Good talk, Grandpapa.” Roman managed a sardonic smile through the sweat dripping down the sides of his face, and the muscles screaming in pain. “Tell my ma I’m fine. Nothing else.”
Anton nodded once, and he knew his grandfather would keep his word on the news he delivered to Claire. As he strolled out of the cell, he called over his shoulder, “But someone should have told you to get your shit together a long time ago, Roman.”
The cell door closed behind him, and he was alone.
Again.
Yeah.
“Yeah, someone should have given a shit,” he murmured to himself.
• • •
His stay didn’t even last a week. Two days after his grandfather’s visit, and Roman was led out of his cell, and freed to the streets. No explanation, and he knew better than to ask questions. The forces of the Avdonin Bratva, connections constantly working behind the scenes, had undoubtedly made it happen. There were a few perks to being who he was.
Even if he sacrificed for it.
A black car with the dark tinted windows, and a bull with a door already held open for him to slip into the backseat waited outside the jail for him. Roman squinted up at the sun, letting the warmth spread over on his face. At least, the shaking was gone. He still felt a gut-deep shudder from time to time, a clawing, irresistible urge to make a run for it.
To go find Marky.
A few more days of resistance and that whispering voice of cocaine still slipping through his veins would hopefully be gone, too.
Roman followed the man who was there to lead him to the car, saying nothing. Not that the bull minded—he didn’t speak, either. He didn’t know who he was but figured he was sent by Demyan to collect him. At one point, he’d stopped paying attention to all the men who surrounded his father. It was all a sea of fucking same-faced soldiers, anyway. Guys who weren’t going anywhere but right where they already were at the end of the day. It was easier if he didn’t make friends with people who eventually came to realize it was the men like him who kept them neck-down on the ground.