Under their boots.
In the car, he sank down in the seat. A few years ago, when conversation still flowed easily between his mother and him, she would have admonished him for sitting like that. Like a cranky teenager.
The scenes of the city passed him by—familiar streets he’d called home forever—and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would miss this place if he ever had to leave. As much as he loved New York, and his family, he hated it all, too.
Too much.
Roman was surprised to find his mother waiting at the door as he took the steps up to the house two at a time. The bulls who guarded the estate had their attention turned to him. The Prince was back, and he’d brought trouble with him.
Everywhere he went.
Claire stood in front of him—mixed emotions marred her face. The flickering anger dancing over her trembling lips was fleeting, though, because the sadness was just as quick to come in its place. His mother had never raised a hand to him—wouldn’t. She didn’t hit her children, but he wondered if she wanted to right then. He would have deserved it.
Then, she smiled.
Soft, and sweet.
The relief taunted him. He would never have admitted that he was happy to see her, too. As a kid he remembered being affectionate, clinging to his mother’s legs and gazing up at his father with pride. He laughed freely, and didn’t worry about what people wanted from him. Life’s experiences had knocked that bullshit out of him eventually.
“Roman.”
She spoke in her trademark quiet voice, leaning forward to put her arms around him. He let her hug him—that was as far he was going to allow it to go because anything more felt like a betrayal to her when he was still the cause of her pain. He breathed in his mother’s familiar scent, allowing himself a sense of comfort. When she pulled away, her gaze searched his six-foot-five-inch frame.
Looking for marks?
Bruises, maybe.
Some sign of jail.
Who knew?
He was glad she didn’t have to see him in the state that his grandfather found him a few days ago. There were conversations he never wanted to have with his mother, and the state of his addiction was high on that list.
“Your sister was about to fly down all the way from Russia,” she said, still holding him by his shoulders at arm’s length.
“Why would she do something as stupid as that?”
“Because she cares about you and loves you. She thought she would have been able to help. Or ... do something—you know how she is.”
Yeah, he knew exactly how his sister was. Vera would get there, end up making a huge fuss, and meddle in every aspect of his life where she wasn’t supposed to interfere. He loved Vera, probably much more than she knew, but she was who she was. She took her big sister role too seriously considering their ages. He was glad she didn’t turn up at the jail for his little stint. A flight from Russia wasn’t worth that.
Roman pulled away from his mother, and headed into the house. The last thing he needed was her sympathy or probing when it wouldn’t do anything for his situation, and any answers she managed to pull from him would only leave her feeling far worse.
Silence worked better.
Even if it hurt.
In the foyer, the booming voice of the Yazov Pakhan, Maxim, carried down the winding staircase. He recognized the voice, not only from the restaurant meeting, but because he had heard it a handful of times in the past. The man’s distant, but known and very real, friendship with Demyan afforded Roman the unfortunate luxury of knowing the man’s tone on the spot.
It instantly irritated him. He may not have reacted that way under any other circumstance, but he couldn't quite say that considering his recent stint in jail because of one of Maxim’s fucking men.
Well.
Roman had a big hand in that, too.
Not that it mattered.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Roman asked his mother, his sharp tone making her wince. He really didn’t expect an answer, and instead of waiting for one, followed the source of the voice. It led him to his father’s office upstairs.
Claire stayed right on his heels. “Roman ... leave them be. Calm down a bit before—”
He ignored his mother, hot anger spiraling into his gut as he charged through the doors of the office to find his father in friendly conversation with the boss of the Chicago Bratva. Both men sat with swirling bourbons in their crystal glasses in each of his father’s favorite leather bucket chairs. The ones Demyan liked placed directly in front of the bay windows so that he had a view of the birds in the spring and summer months. Both men turned his way at the abrupt—and rude, although he didn’t give a damn—entrance.
“Son,” was all Demyan remarked.
His expression remained undecipherable.
Blank like paper.
Roman couldn’t tell if his father was happy to see him or not as he stepped further into the room. He didn’t turn to make sure his mother was gone. She knew to disappear and not interfere when vory were in the house, but especially when they were in his father’s office. Claire had been playing this game for far longer than even Roman. Her voice was loud in private, but she knew when that time was, too.
Maxim Yazov sat staring at him, resignation pulling his face in a more somber expression—the kind of look an uncle might give their favorite nephew for breaking a vase. Roman knew the man from his childhood, but he wouldn’t go as far to say he held real affection for the man in the same way he might for his uncle, Koldan, the boss of the Jersey Bratva. As far as he remembered—Demyan and Maxim kept a friendship, but not a particularly close one. They had a decent working relationship, and Roman was brought up to respect Maxim because of it, but also as a man who had earned his rank in the bratva. A boss.
But he wasn’t Roman’s boss.
That’s what counted today. One of his men had set him up, and sent him to jail over a car. Petty bullshit, really. None of his business with the car boost would really affect business between the organizations. Brigadiers fought amongst themselves all the time, especially between bratvas, and as long as it didn’t hurt any withstanding deals or cross some obvious line, then nobody gave a shit.
What made him different?
Roman couldn’t be sure if Maxim had a role to play in his arrest, too. He intended on finding out, though.
“Do you want to explain to me—”
Demyan arched a brow, and the second his mouth opened, Roman’s words came to a halt when his father said, “The first words out of your mouth should be thank you and nothing else, Roman.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maxim here,” Demyan explained, a hand waving in the direction of the quiet man, “pulled some strings, and got you out of the doghouse way sooner than we would have managed.”
Roman didn’t even blink. “I could have waited it out—let’s not pretend like they were going to press charges that actually fucking stuck. Name a brigadier you know that wants his name on a police record as the victim. I was fine.”
His father gave him that look—one that spoke volumes. A frequent, silent order that had accompanied him since childhood, and it pissed him off even more because of it. Be grateful, Roman, it said.
For what?
Getting clean on a jailhouse floor?
Unneeded police attention on his work?
Right.