Demyan Avdonin and his wife would not be seen in a place like this, getting their photo taken and plastered across every rag in the city. It was attention the Avdonins didn’t need, and his father’s bratva couldn’t afford. He had just handed his parents one more reason to add to the growing pile of concerns.
He gripped the edges of the metal bed while waves of nausea rippled through his body with the next round of shivers. His jaw clenched, feeling the rise and fall of his insides, in an effort to hold back the vomit promising to spill his stomach contents.
Deep breaths.
One more.
He might be able to breathe through it. A few more minutes, and the shaking would hopefully stop. His skin was glazed, damp with sweat. The sweat seeped through the faded buzz of his black hair—greasy to the touch. That was the least of Roman’s problems.
He wasn’t sure if his last name afforded him a bit of dignity and respect from the officers in the jail, but the guards hadn’t forced him to leave for a shower. Or shit, maybe it was the opposite, and somebody was teaching him a lesson.
Fine.
It was well-learned.
The turning of a key in his cell door had Roman jumping up to sit on the edge of the bed. Bad move. He rocked himself back and forth, uncaring and not knowing who watched him from the door because that was the only way to keep himself from hurling his stomach contents on the floor.
Then, he looked up.
Fuck.
Through swimming vision, his grandfather, Anton, watched him from where he stood in the open passageway, slapping one of the guards on his shoulder. He even had a fucking smile on his face as he stepped into his grandson’s cell.
Roman should have known.
Visitation rules didn’t apply to the Avdonins.
Money talked.
Bullshit walked.
Anton was brought directly here. Despite the shaking and convulsing, it was instinctual for Roman to stand up. The respect of the matter, because his grandfather was in the room, and nothing more. Something he had done from the time he was a boy, and despite being a twenty-seven-year-old man in a bit of a messy situation, it bore no effect on the respect he offered to Anton.
That, and a little bit of love.
Love made him stand, too.
In his seventies, one wouldn’t think that looking at his grandfather, Anton wore the age badly. In fact, he carried it quite well. Deep lines in his face and the gray that colored his jet-black hair gave his severe nature a bit more wisdom and color. He was feared by many, but growing up under his grandfather’s feet taught Roman one important thing about the man.
He was still just that.
A man.
“Roman, you look like shit, yeah,” Anton said when the guard stepped away from the cell, and out of his sight entirely. “Sit down, my boy.”
At least, he didn’t look worried.
That was a win.
Roman would take what he could get.
And then his grandfather had to go and say, “Well done—you’ve thoroughly terrified your mother.”
“Kick me when I’m down, Grandpapa.”
That’s how it was done.
Anton only shrugged.
Roman couldn’t stand the silence. “What are you doing here?”
He sat back down, but not because his grandfather suggested it or because he really wanted to. His knees were already giving up on him, and the floor had started to spin.
Goddammit.
“I’m admiring the scenery,” Anton said, a dark chuckle echoing with his words. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”
Roman let out a grunt that tasted like bile. “Okay, why are you here?”
“Can’t a grandfather visit his grandson in jail?”
“Not if he’s Anton Avdonin.” Roman tipped his head to the side, meeting his grandfather’s gaze as he uttered through chattering teeth, “We stay the fuck away from cops, always. A guy goes in, we work to get him out, but we don’t fucking touch him until he is. That’s what you always told me.”
And his father. Any bratva man that cared enough to teach Roman about their life. All of them. He knew how this worked. He expected nothing different for him because he was who he was.
So ...
“Why are you here?” he asked again.
His grandfather moved to stand against the wall, arms crossed over his wide chest. Like Demyan, Anton had that ability to scrutinize him and read him easily. Old souls, they had muttered between each other from the time Roman could remember. His father said they were all the same, just a little different. Anton never denied it.
Roman wondered how.
He had yet to figure it out.
“Are you going to ask me how they are?” Anton murmured instead of answering his grandson’s question.
Stay out of my fucking head, he thought.
Still holding onto that stupid pride, Roman replied, “I’m going to ask you what they’re saying about me, yeah.”
Anton sighed deeply, shaking his head. It should have bothered Roman more that he was becoming accustomed to the look of disappointment on his family’s faces. They thought he was out of control.
Hell.
They weren’t wrong.
“Your mother worries, anyway, but this—”
“She has nothing to worry about,” Roman snapped, refusing to let his grandfather even go there.
He wasn’t doing this. And certainly not here—in a jail cell with a guard that was probably still close enough to overhear their private conversation. He stood up too quickly, making his legs turn to jelly. For a few minutes, he’d almost managed to forget that his body was revolting against his mind.
A war raged inside him.
Could his grandfather see it?
“No, you’re right, Roman. Why would your mother worry—you’re perfectly fine.”
The sharp edge to Anton’s voice was the only thing that kept his grandson from thinking he was speaking to himself. “You’re in withdrawal.”
A laugh escaped Roman’s lips, and he rubbed his hand over his nose—a habit he hated. “I’m in prison. I’m bored. I was so close—that car would have pulled in three mil, easy.”
The harder Roman tried to brush his current condition off, the darker Anton’s face got.
“Listen to yourself.”
“Grandpapa, just—”
“You’re in denial.”
Anton rarely yelled, and he certainly wasn’t in the habit of raising his voice in public. But for a brief moment, he dropped the facade when his words snapped louder and felt like whips cracking down on a stoic Roman.
Never lose control, Roman.
Don’t let people find the parts of you that react—or the things you’ll react for. They’ll always hit you where you’re weak.
Those were Anton’s words, so for his grandfather to make time to visit him here, alongside his outburst, it didn’t mean anything good. Self-control was sometimes a very fickle thing for Avdonin men.
Roman was not the exception.
“I am fine,” Roman assured, his throat dry. “I just need a few days.”
“Your eyes look like they’re bleeding.”
“Do you want to sleep in this fucking joint, or ...?”
“You’re shaking. Has the puking started yet—the shits, maybe? God knows that steel toilet is going to be a lot harsher to sweat this round through than the cushioned seat in your bathroom at the loft, hmm?”