Grateful.
Roman knew what was expected of him, and only because he didn’t care to make the situation more difficult for himself than it needed to be, he turned to Maxim and gave him a nod. That was as far as he was going to go. The words thank you would not be pried from his living, breathing mouth.
“You wouldn’t have been fine,” Demyan noted, then, turning to Maxim with a nod of his own. “As I’ve said already, your help is appreciated, of course.”
Roman almost flinched at that statement.
Anton would never.
Demyan was stooping—bending to another man in a position of power, even if it was in private. That went against everything he had ever known about his father, and what the man taught him. Roman seriously doubted the Yazovs had anything that interested his father enough to essentially put him on his knees—even hypothetically.
So, why?
What was he trying to prove?
Apparently, Demyan wanted to prove something to Roman if his next words were any indication. “Maybe there is some way that my son can explain his actions. For once, I would enjoy hearing that.”
His gaze turned on Roman, cold but patient.
Waiting.
So did Maxim’s.
He had fucking news for them—not that they would like it. The two were going to keep waiting for something Roman didn’t have. Or rather, something he didn’t plan to give at all. Everyone in the room knew exactly what—and why—it had happened.
This was all a charade.
He refused to play into it.
“I’m not going to make excuses for myself,” Roman said simply.
Maxim sat forward on the edge of his seat, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself from watching the train wreck happen right in front of his face. Demyan drummed his fingers on the armchair, the line of his jaw tensing in a way that meant he was losing his calm demeanor, and fast.
The only noise?
Ice cubes swirling in his father’s glass.
What else did he expect from Roman? Groveling? Going down on his knees and fucking apologizing to this man like he was the lesser between them?
Absolutely not.
When Demyan glanced at Maxim once more, a look was exchanged between the two that said there was something else at play. Something he wasn’t privy to, and he didn’t like that. It immediately put him on edge sharper than he could handle. He should have known his father wasn’t going to just let his actions go with a half-assed non-apology.
This wasn’t new for Roman.
It was just getting old.
“Fine, then if my son doesn’t feel like humbling himself, it only seems fair to allow you to do so, old friend,” Demyan said, keeping his head tilted toward Maxim though his gaze rammed hard into Roman. “How can we repay you for this unfortunate incident?”
At that question, he faced Maxim directly and ignored Roman like he wasn’t even in the room.
“Damages to the car, yes?”
“Of course.”
“What fucking damages?” Roman snarled.
His father and Maxim continued as if he wasn’t in the room.
Still.
“And Dima wants—”
Roman interrupted that bullshit from Maxim before it went any further. “I am not apologizing to him. You’ll rip every bone from my body before I’ll say fuck all to that piece of shit.”
“That can be arranged,” Maxim murmured.
He stared back at the man, unaffected.
So be it.
The thing people didn’t realize about Roman?
He’d die on his hills.
Every fucking one of them.
His father tossed a warning look his way—what was that supposed to do?
Roman clenched his fists at his sides, noticing the throb behind his eyes where it was beginning to feel like his brain was contracting. Rage was a real problem he had never quite learned how to handle—why would he when letting it free felt so much better? He’d always been big on shit that felt good.
Right then, there were so many things in the room he would have loved to pick up and break. Hurricane Roman, his grandmama used to call him when he was younger and threw an unholy fit. If he ever had a chance to trash this room ...
This was where his father exercised all his power—that authority Roman had grown to despise. Where he was constantly reminded of the fact that he was not like Demyan.
Not like Anton.
“He doesn’t have to apologize to Dima, no, I have a better idea, anyway.” Maxim spoke in a cool voice, like he knew where this conversation was headed from the moment he began. Unsurprisingly, Roman bet he did, too. “From what I hear, your chop shops are ... quite lucrative, yes?”
What does that fucking have anything to do with you?
His shops, the car theft ring ... that business he had built from the ground up, starting when he was still practically a fucking kid, was sacred to him in ways he couldn’t explain. He’d done that.
It was his.
Fuck anyone who assumed differently, or thought they could take it from him.
He dared them to try.
If only Roman felt like letting his thoughts slip out of his mouth would do him good then he might consider it, but he was well aware that wasn’t the case. Maybe it was the absence of the coke in his veins that made him feel less invincible, or even his recent stint in jail. One way or another, he knew his better option at the moment was to shut the fuck up until he understood what was really going on.
Maxim continued speaking to the room, unconcerned about Roman’s silence. “I want the car theft scheme moved to Chicago. We can hire a new crew—or you can bring your own from here, no?—and we’ll do whatever it takes to make it as successful as it has been here. Eventually—perhaps—I’ll consider allowing you to return to your business here if things are beneficial on my side of things there.”
Demyan glanced at his son, his silent anger vibrating through the room; the unspoken words he wouldn’t say out loud were still clear to his son. Do you see what you have done? You did this to yourself.
Was he hearing this correctly?
Maxim Yazov wanted his own chop shop ring in Illinois, run exactly the way Roman had been running it here?
Why—he kept coming back to that goddamn question. He bet there were a handful of guys in Maxim’s Bratva that were perfectly capable of running a boosting scheme. Maybe they wouldn’t make as much money as Roman could—at least, not right away—but that was only because he had a ready set of connections to get shit off the ground. And he worked years for that.
The very fact he’d built his business the way he had allowed him a sort of freedom within the Avdonin Bratva that many other brigadiers didn’t have. Roman did it all himself.
For what, now?
Chicago’s benefit?
It certainly wouldn’t be like New York, he bet.
“But you know, Maxim, I’ve had no role in Roman’s work,” Demyan murmured around the rim of his glass before taking a large gulp. Setting the glass back down to the table between the two men, he added, “Technically, he’s not had to answer to or for anyone—he makes his money, pays his dues, and doesn’t rely heavily on the direction—or correction—of his boss. It’s ... worked better that way, you know?”
The rage coursing through Roman rendered him stone-still. He didn’t expect Maxim to have the balls to suggest something like this to his father—or for his father to react in this way. Another bratva was suggesting stealing his son’s business from right under his feet. So what, when Maxim was happy his scheme was up and running, making good money, then he’d boot Roman back to New York with a lesson well-learned?