“What the fuck are you—”
She didn’t even finish her sentence before the windshield was shot out of the Bugatti. Roman had enough sense to turn his face away from the exploding glass, but he couldn’t say if Anastasia had been smart enough—or quick, for that matter—to do the same. His low fuck hissed through the car when he turned his head just in time to see brass knuckles coming for the driver’s side window.
It was over, then.
Roman knew it.
His hands went up, and all he said, hoping Anastasia would hear, was, “Be easy, shit.”
Two cops went for him immediately—one must have got the car in park because the damn thing didn’t roll away when he found himself some distance away from the car, face down to cement with hands on his back and shoulders.
A knee found the middle of his shoulders, too.
“Nice place, Roman,” he heard one of the cops say above him. “Always wondered what it looked like inside.”
Christ.
“This was a setup,” Roman hissed as he watched the scene unfold.
Anastasia was pulled from the car, too, but it only took one pig to do the job on that side of things. The horror filling her face as tears streamed down her cheeks did nothing to ease the rough handling of the officer that dragged her to Roman’s side on the cement floor. It also didn’t stop her from fighting the man every step of the way.
He had to give her that.
Somehow, Roman got the feeling that she didn’t know what role she had played in this scheme—if that’s what this had been—but if she did ... he would make her wish she hadn’t.
Roman tensed when the weight of the officer’s knee came firmer into his back, the pain spearing through his spine instantly. “I said fucking easy, asshole.”
The cop only laughed. “It’s going to be a long night for you, buddy.”
Stale breath wafted over his shoulder. He’d have given anything to be able to drive his fist through the man’s rib cage in that second.
Life didn’t work that way.
And this wasn’t his first rodeo.
Roman was well aware what a stunt like that could potentially cost him, and already, he could count the charges he was going to have piling up.
Anastasia was the one who still hadn’t got the memo to stay still, say nothing, and let the ball roll. Her unholy fit continued with the same cop who did his best to keep her contained on the floor.
“Let me go. You have to let me go! They will kill me.”
Her screams flew over the cops.
Unheard.
Not for him, though.
She’d mentioned her idea of freedom earlier, and the word was still lingering in the back of his mind. As the cops barked back and forth—waiting for their back-up down the block, apparently, yet another sign this had been a planned event—he turned to the screeching redhead at his right.
“You wanna be free?”
Anastasia sucked in a shuddering, sobbed, “W-what?”
He wasn’t going to be a parrot—didn’t have time for it, considering their circumstances. Under his breath, Roman told the chick, “Keep your mouth shut—say you were my whore. Picked you up in Odessa. You’ll get twelve months, max. Chicago ... Dima, none of them will touch you when it’s that long. Twelve months, and you can start over.”
Her wet, green eyes searched his, but there wasn’t anything left for her to find. Her red lips trembled like she was going to say something, and he was sure he saw her mouth thank you when the two cops gripping Roman yanked him up from the floor without warning. He didn’t fight being led out of the warehouse. He figured there was a cop car parked outside. Somewhere discreet on the side where he didn’t notice it when he zoomed past.
Like a fucking idiot.
The whole thing was a setup. He knew that now. Right from the Bugatti key, and Anastasia with the big tits and long legs to catch his self-indulgent eye. This was the reason why Dima was trying to dominate the conversation, determined to divert attention to the female on his arm and how desirable she was. He hoped to get on Roman’s nerves, to inadvertently challenge him in to falling for the redheaded bait.
The motherfucker had figured him out—and knew Roman would not be able to resist the car or the woman when he had something to prove.
Pride was a bitch.
Especially his.
The better question was why.
Roman wouldn’t waste time on being hit where he was weak—he only cared about the reason it happened in the first goddamn place. Those answers were going to have to wait. Unfortunately.
The grip of the police tightened on his shoulders as Roman whistled a happy tune, the cop car finally coming into sight. He knew that would infuriate them.
What did they expect?
“Knock it off,” the cop at his left muttered.
Roman continued instead, and celebrated a silent mini-victory.
Whatever they did next, well ...
He’d probably suffered worse.
FOUR
As another round of chills started to creep through Roman’s aching frame on the hard metal slab that was now his bed in the jail cell, he reminded himself that this was nothing he hadn’t done before. He had been in jail for minor shit over the years. Months at a time, even. Protection wasn’t something he concerned himself with, either. His last name guaranteed nobody with half a brain cell would or could touch him.
Not without dying for it.
He just wanted to be left alone.
It had been four days since his arrest, and he spent most of that time in his cell, staring up at the ceiling from his bed, blankly. At least, he was alone in the cell, but that was the only comfort he was allowed.
The effects of withdrawal had started rearing their ugly heads forty-eight hours into his incarceration. By three days, he was sure his neighbor in the cell next door to his was tired of hearing him pace as the headaches and shivers started. He could sense what was going to come. The puking. Fevers and chills for days. His heart already raced, but that would get far worse, too, until he was sure the organ might explode from the stress on it.
This was only the beginning.
Four days without the little baggies Marky supplied, and Roman was reminded all over again why he kept telling himself it was the last time every time he put the coke back down. Then, a fucking voice in his head that sounded a lot like himself would say he could handle it when he knew that white powder would make shit a whole lot better, and he’d be right back at it again. Still, he wasn’t new to withdrawal. He just needed to wait it out. Wait for his body to flush it, and then he would be fresh again.
He’d been here, done this.
Just not in jail at the same time.
The best thing he could do for himself was to stay out of trouble. At least for a few days until the storm had passed. It wasn’t like the officers in the jail would or could do anything to help with the symptoms—shit, they had active users in the jail cells who had drugs brought in for them to contend with. Somebody sweating out their withdrawal in a cell was a common sight.
He didn’t have to worry about confronting his family—his parents would never visit him in jail. His family weren’t traditionalist in following the bratva rules, but when police got involved, the rules and expectations were the same all across the board. Everyone stayed out of sight until shit was handled.