Sounded like bullshit.
“That’s what I was told, yes,” Maxim said, nodding in agreement. “Which means it will have to be Roman running the show, but I don’t mind. As long as the money is worth it, and he doesn’t make me regret it.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
Demyan shrugged, unfazed by his son’s outburst. “Move to Chicago—get acquainted with a new scene? Sounds like it might be exactly what you need to ... start out clean. If you hear what I’m saying, I mean.”
He heard him perfectly well, actually.
His father was trying to sell him this plan, having worked it out in advance with Maxim before Roman’s arrival. No doubt. Another fucking setup. So this was how his father was spending his time while he was left to tough-it-out in jail.
Another teachable moment.
As if it had ever worked before.
“And in return you’ll gain access to some of our trafficking routes, Demyan. I’ll make sure it is worth your while. We can have our spies work that out between themselves, no?”
Demyan tipped his head once, saying only, “Works for me.”
Wait ...
“You can’t just demand I—”
“And how long do you think this will last?” Demyan asked, interjecting before his son could get a decent word in edgewise. “Roman in Chicago, I mean. For his mother’s peace of mind, give me an estimate.”
Demyan was asking all the questions for him, as if this was a regular job interview or some shit. Except there was nothing regular about this, and it wasn’t just any job. It was repayment. A lesson being taught to a truant son.
Roman saw through all of it. All the terms and conditions had been discussed before he had even stepped out of the jailhouse, he was sure. He wasn’t going to get a say here—that much was clear.
“For as long as it takes,” Maxim replied, offering a wave of two fingers in Roman’s direction. “And so, I suppose it really comes down to him, no? And how dedicated he is to making it work.”
Roman said nothing.
What was the point?
That didn’t seem to bother his father.
“This will be good for us all,” Demyan added.
“For whom?”
Roman’s sharp words—the only ones he could manage without saying something he might seriously regret—went unheard by the men.
“New things are on the horizon, Roman. Good things, maybe. A challenge, a new environment ... friends to make, even?” Maxim offered him that as if it was something he might enjoy. “It’s not a bad way to spend a year or two.”
“Or longer.” Demyan steepled his fingers under his chin, saying more, “This is the only way we can make the legal issues go away currently—the Yazovs will handle that as long as you do what you need to for them. Quite a big pile of legal shit that you have got yourself into, considering.”
“I didn’t ask for help to get out of it. I have managed to single-handedly get out of every other pile of shit just fine,” Roman snapped back.
“Have you ever faced something like this before? You’re looking at eight or more years in prison,” Maxim interjected. It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep himself from pouncing at the man. “And that’s if I tell my legal side of things to back off on applying pressure to the police I have in my pocket. If they keep digging beyond the hole you’ve already dug for yourself ... Roman, it only gets worse from here, I assure you.”
Then, Maxim smirked wickedly. “But move to Chicago for a few years and all this goes away, yes? See, simple. And I can make it happen.”
Now it was a few years?
Right.
He knew better than to ask for options.
There weren’t any.
His feet moved in the direction of the door before he truly comprehended what he was even doing, the heaviness of disbelief still thick enough to keep him quiet for the moment. One didn’t just walk out of a room where two pakhans were in conversation. He should have waited to be dismissed, but what were they going to do—shoot him? By the sounds of it, Maxim needed him.
Demyan had long ago given up trying to educate his son in the proper displays of respect when it came to better men. And still, his father’s angry, dark shout hit his back as he retreated from the room. “Roman!”
He let the door bang hard enough to echo on his way out. It was only the sight of his mother, standing at the end of the corridor, that made him pause long enough to subdue the sudden urge to trash the entire hallway.
“Can we talk?” she asked, the high pitch of her tone making him wince.
Claire was the kind of woman who put decorum and order above everything else. For her to drop that act, considering who was in the house, well it didn’t spell out anything good. He assumed her anger was with him, but Roman stilled in place when she rushed toward him, clutching at the long string of pearls around her neck.
He was tempted to simply walk past her, and ignore the pleading in her eyes. But then she reached for him when she was closer, curling her fingers around his left bicep and gazing up at him with love—pure love from a mother. Emotion so raw, it always made him want to look away when she leveled it on him. Roman had always known his mother loved him. It was inexplicable—something he just knew when she was around him. A tangible feeling beyond the understanding. There was a part of him that thought it weakened him because he loved her, too. But he had never been able to say that love was enough to keep him from causing her pain.
Demyan was the king of New York, wielding unimaginable power over an entire state in the country. From the time he could walk, Roman found himself under his father’s feet constantly, and yet as a child, it was with his mother where he felt safest.
Somehow, that hadn’t changed.
“What do you want to talk about, Ma? Please, don’t act like you didn’t know. He wouldn’t keep something like this from you.”
Claire’s grip on him tightened, her nostrils flared as her lips twitched. Wetness welled in her green eyes. He couldn’t do tears.
No fucking way.
Not right then.
Not from his ma.
Roman was not the man mentally wired to handle his mother’s sentimentality at the same time when he was ready to spontaneously combust from rage. He didn’t want to be an asshole, but he was quickly running out of solutions to keep that from happening.
He tugged at his arm in an effort to pull away from her, but Claire held on tight.
“Yes, I knew. He told me. I know you won’t believe me because you think nothing about this family is worth your while, but I fought him on it. I did, Roman. I don’t want you to go to Chicago. I love having you here ... even if you don’t want to be most of the time.”
As her voice trailed off, Claire finally released her son, making him step back.
“It doesn’t fucking matter, does it?” he asked, letting out a clipped laugh. “The boss made his decision, and we all know what it means. Bratva before blood, Ma. Right?”
It was the brotherhood’s way. A long time ago, he thought he knew what that meant; even believed he was born for it.
“Roman.”
Her chiding did little for him.
“I’m not wrong, though.”
Claire stood a little stiffer. “Even so, your father has never made the wrong decision for this family.”