She was a paid whore.
Added to the scenery.
Just like the other women who dotted the restaurant’s floor. Women the other men of the bratva had brought along with them to either show off, or entice someone for one reason or another. Games were constantly in play, and Roman didn’t pretend like he cared to understand or indulge in any of them.
Dressed to the nines; their faces caked with makeup and in clothes that cost just a little less than their boob jobs—the women added to the entertainment while the men discussed important business. And every single one of them knew they were here because they weren’t good enough to actually be wives. There wouldn’t be sparkling rings on their fingers. No mansions behind gates and little babies to soak their affection and attention on while their husbands did ... whatever they wanted to do.
None, that was, except his mother, Claire.
His father had arranged for a separate car to transport Claire to the venue, some time after everyone else had settled down. Some might consider it a huge disrespect to Claire that she was invited where no other wife of important men in the criminal underworld would go. Like it meant she wasn’t good enough, either. His mother once told him she didn’t care what people thought about where or with whom she spent her time. He believed her.
Roman gazed at his mother across the floor. Claire Avdonin, Irish enough to color her up, defined herself in ways others didn’t. He figured, some of his personality had definitely been formed by that, even if he took it to an extreme. Her class, style, and natural warmth was unparalleled by everyone she met—no one compared. Not another man’s wife, not passers on the street, and certainly not any of the other women here. She was the kind of woman who was born to stand beside the man she did. Except when asked, she liked to say it had been learned. Nonetheless, her very nature made her a perfect hostess for the dinner that had been able to immediately make everyone feel comfortable in their surroundings.
These were rival, criminal bosses ... and their men. Important men from all sides, really. Loud as a habit. Difficult by nature. Dominant in their power.
Yet, their chauvinistic, tattooed, crass selves melted into smiling, softer spoken gentlemen when Claire came around with her high-voltage smile, and her melodic, kind voice. She didn’t intrude, was a sight to see, she never asked questions, and people trusted her.
She set them off guard.
Every single time.
If nothing else, Roman had to hand it to his father for selecting the right woman to have by his side.
His mother looked at him across the room like she sensed he was watching her. She smiled at him, quick and fleeting, and he gave her a nod in response. Then, Anastasia’s hand on Roman’s knee brought him quickly back to the table he was sitting at.
This shit was purposeful.
It had to be.
His father arranged to have him stuck at his current table with these two—maybe to punish him for their earlier conversation, or just because he thought Roman could use a lesson in self-control.
Whatever the reason, he wasn’t thrilled. He didn’t like the idea that his father had arranged for him to be at this table, with a paid whore and Dima Kuznetsov, son of Leonid Kusnetsov. A Vor from the Chicago Bratva, there was something about Dima that rubbed Roman wrong. He didn’t have to know what it was for it to be there—it being there was enough.
Anastasia moved her hand away from Roman’s knee before Dima noticed it there. After all, he was probably the one who paid for her—maybe she was one of his women that he trusted enough to travel, who fucking knew—and it was obvious to Roman that he was trying to establish himself as the bigger man at the table.
Yeah.
It was going to take more than comparing cocks in whatever way Dima felt like it to make Roman even consider weighing whether or not the man was worth the effort. He already knew the answer anyway.
Dima wasn’t.
Insignificant, Dima’s voice was a nuisance at the table. Dragging at the back of his mind, fraying his already taut nerves. The topic at hand would have interested Roman, maybe, if he was just trying to inform him about the business, but he wasn’t.
Anastasia was good at pretending to hang off his every word. Her bright red hair matched the color of her plump lips. The blindingly shiny silver dress also matched her stilettos. She glanced at him from time to time, every chance she got to look away from the man who had an arm around her delicate shoulders.
“But you see, sweetheart, I know where to put my money so I can make more, yes? You get it?” Dima asked, speaking only to Anastasia but loud enough that his other companion at the table was forced to grit his teeth through it.
Roman’s molars were going to crack.
Surely.
He did his best to keep the cocaine buzz going, but that shit was slowly starting to fade. If he didn’t slip away somewhere to get back into the right headspace, nothing good would happen. Except people would notice. More specifically, his father. It almost made him want to do it more, just for the reaction. Maybe that would trigger Demyan in to finishing the conversation he instigated in the car.
He still wasn’t over that.
“You are so smart,” Anastasia said.
A smile curled the corners of her lips as she threw Roman a knowing glance. She was making it too obvious, and yet, it flew under Dima’s radar. He chuckled—the pride thick and clear—while he nodded to her compliment.
Dima winked, saying, “I was born into this business. Multiplying my capital is in my blood, hmm?”
And so is the flesh trade; Roman wanted to add but he chewed on his words—mainly because he didn’t want to direct Dima’s attention to himself. He refused to engage unless required ...
Or provoked.
Anastasia drawled on, her voice sultry in Dima’s ear with praises and compliments that stroked the man’s ego but with just enough suggestive sarcasm to keep Roman mildly amused. Then, he had to go and notice the way she flicked her tongue over her lips.
Yeah, sure, he wouldn’t have minded bending her over a table and having his fill. Sex was sex—he enjoyed feeding the urge—and he didn’t feel very much shame about it.
Never had.
Consenting adults could do whatever the fuck they wanted, as long as it felt good. And hell, even if it didn't.
He just had to like it.
In fact, he imagined getting his fill from Anastasia within yelling distance of Dima—there was no better way to ruin a man’s reputation than fucking his woman—and it seemed like a good idea. Rubbing his hand over his upper lip again, he sniffed.
Across the room, he briefly listened to the conversations passing between his father, and the other bosses at the table. The meeting was turning out to be a success. Demyan was being offered trafficking connections to help grow the network for the Avdonins beyond their current reach. It looked like he would even accept the offer. He would have to be a fool to turn that down.
Roman wondered what Maxim Yazov from Chicago wanted in return, though.
Three bratvas working together in harmony was unheard of, but if they could make it happen, it was better than one working alone. Even Roman knew that.
“I mean they’re all a ripe, young age to listen, you know?” Dima continued.
Jesus Christ.
How was he still talking?
Roman’s irritation bubbled as he was forced to pay attention to what the idiot playing pretend said. Anastasia shifted in her seat, and this was the first time she displayed a reaction to the content of this conversation.