Between Us

1

R oman Leskov stepped out of the Russian restaurant, letting the door close behind him with a firm click.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and rolled one between two fingers before bringing it to his mouth.

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, enjoying the familiar taste of nicotine on his tongue.

It was a beautiful afternoon outside, the clear blue sky above him and the warm breeze ghosting over the back of his neck announcing the transition from spring to summer.

He wasn't a fan of the hot, humming weather Chicago had to offer during summer season, but he would take that anytime over the freezing winters.

With another drag of his cigarette, he walked to his car that was parked just a few feet away, beside the sidewalk.

Just as he opened the driver's door to his black Mercedes Coupé, his phone started to ring. He removed his suit jacket and tossed it on the passenger seat before climbing into the car and answering the call without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Yeah,” he said with a hint of annoyance as he started the engine and merged into traffic. He'd had a shitty day and was more than ready to go home, take a shower and just do nothing, for once.

“Bad time?”His father's voice came through the speaker, laced with the insinuation of derision. It didn't matter when Vitaly Leskov called; Roman had to pick up hisPakhan 's calls at all times, good or bad. Like it or not, it was just the way things worked in their world.

Roman didn't grace that question with an answer. Smoking his cigarette, he settled more comfortably into the leather seat as he drove to his apartment. “I’ll take a wild guess and assume that you're not calling to make small talk. You can't miss me that much—you saw me not even five hours ago.”

His teasing had the intended effect.“Get your ass to the house before I decide to make an example out of your smart mouth. I have something important to discuss with you.”

Vitaly's threat held little power. Roman had learned from an early age how to distinguish between the two personas his father embodied: the parent and the mafia boss. This time, it was the former talking. “I'll be there in thirty.”

None too pleased with having to throw his plans out the window, Roman turned the car around at the next intersection, changing direction. With the slow traffic, it took almost forty minutes to get to his destination.

His father’s imposing, three-story mansion lay tucked away from the world in a small oasis of verdant trees, flanked on all sides by a tall brick wall for both privacy and security reasons.

After passing the two guards stationed at the front gates, Roman parked in the circular drive, next to another familiar vehicle.

Seeing as his father’s right-hand was there, Roman knew the reason for the impromptu meeting had something to do with work.

Unhurriedly, he climbed out of the car and headed for the front entrance, not looking forward to yet another Bratva-related meeting.

Before he could grab the brass handle, the door swung open, revealing the tall silhouette of Vitaly’s young wife.

Yana gave him a wide smile, stepping out in her usual uniform of sky-high heels and designer dress that looked like it had been sewn on her.

“Hello, Roman,” she greeted in an accented voice, sounding all too fake with her pleasantries. Imported straight from Russia a few years ago, this one.

He nodded once, his nose twitching reflexively from the smell of her cloying perfume. “Yana.”

“Dinner tomorrow night, yes?” She was already breezing past him and toward her waiting Aston Martin. The car was ostentatious to say the least—the latest gift from her very generous husband.

“Sure,” he said in a toneless voice. Yana’s dinners were about as entertaining as watching paint dry, but Vitaly had made it clear to all of his three children that attending was not optional.

Pleased with his answer, she gave him a small wave over her shoulder before disappearing behind tinted windows.

Roman found his father in his office, sitting behind his desk and talking to the only other person in the room.

The door was wide open, so Roman stepped inside, nodding in acknowledgement in Oleg's direction.

A bull of a man, Oleg Rusanov looked incredibly intimidating to those who met him for the first time.

He had a personality to match his physical appearance, both traits combined making him very successful in his role as Vitaly's right-hand man.

“Close the door,” Vitaly said in their mother tongue. Roman did as he was told before taking the empty seat beside Oleg. His father leaned back in his chair, smoothing his palms over the shiny top of the desk. He cut straight to the chase. “There has been a new development with the Italians.”

Said Italians had been causing too much trouble for the past couple of years, ever since Nero Rossetti, their leader, had managed to close a deal with the Armenian Clan ruling the northern part of the city.

As a result of this unlikely pact, Rossetti had gained access to the Armenians' arms trafficking connections, while his partners had obtained leverage in the US Senate where the Don had some well-placed contacts. The collaboration had been a shock to Vitaly’s Bratva who had been working closely with the Armenian Clan for decades, brought together by their historic alliances and mutual interests.

Roman remained quiet, waiting for his father to get on with his point.

He finally did, a moment later. “Their pact with the Armenians has been broken. It looks like the two senators Rossetti kept on a leash have somehow managed to break free. Davit is livid, as you can probably imagine. He severed the relationship as soon as he found out the Italians will be of no more use to him.”

“That's good news,” Roman said. “I take it Davit has crawled back to you, looking to rekindle the old friendship?”

Vitaly's face remained impassive. “He is a proud man. It will take him a while.”

Ah , so the news had come from other sources.

Roman was now wondering why his father had asked him to come.

As Brigadier, he took part in official meetings, but this didn’t seem like official business.

There were six other Brigadiers in his father's Bratva, and none of them were here.

“Is there a reason why we're discussing this between the three of us?”

“There is,” Vitaly confirmed, passing a look of mutual understanding to Oleg.

“I have found a way to get out of the corner we've been backed into for the past two years. As such, Davit needs to learn there will be consequences for shitting all over old alliances, and Rossetti must be reminded of his place once more.” He paused for effect, meeting his son's gaze.

“We will be the ones to cut a deal with the Italians this time. Davit is reluctant to initiate a reconciliation for obvious reasons. Rossetti already knows if that happens, I will be looking for revenge. Being the calculating man that he is, he has decided to reach out first.”

As much as Roman hated the idea of an alliance with the Italians, he had to give it to his father—it was good strategical thinking that would ensure the best outcome for the Bratva. “What is he offering?”

At this, his father smiled. “A small part of his territory with key distribution points that will boost the sale of our product, and his only daughter.”

Roman felt one of his eyebrow arch, his interest piqued. “His daughter? What need do we have for a teenage girl?”

“She is leverage in case he thinks to cross me. Now, this is where I need you to step up and close the deal. You have to marry the girl.”

“Marry the girl?” Roman asked incredulously, anger and indignation wiping away that initial curiosity. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Vitaly's gaze darkened at his son's sharp tone. “Because yourPakhanhas asked you to do it. She is the strongest leverage I can get out of this deal, and I will not let you ruin it. We need to come out on top, and this is the way to do it.”

Roman took a moment to absorb this new and unexpected development, and also get a grip on his volatile temper.

It wouldn't do him any good to throw a tantrum. He’d learned early on that when dealing with his father’s demands, his best chances of refuting them were dictated by diplomacy and logical arguments.

When he spoke again, his voice was more level.

“Why can't Alek marry her? He is closer in age to her than I am.”

“Your brother is not good enough for a mafia principessa. You are my firstborn and heir. Nero Rossetti will have it no other way.”

Thoughts racing, Roman ran a rough hand over his unshaved jaw. “She's what... eighteen?”

“She turned nineteen two weeks ago.”

“Jesus Christ. She's too young.”

Vitaly gave him a dismissive look. “Too young for what? All she has to do is spread her legs for you and give you children. She is old enough for that, and it is all that matters.”

Of course his father saw no problem with the girl's age. He had married a woman twenty-seven years his junior, after all. At twenty-nine, Yana was just one year older than Roman. In the aftermath of his mother’s untimely death, six years ago, his father had been so devastated, it seemed unlikely he would ever remarry.

Roman would have laughed at the irony of that twist of fate, had it not bothered him so much.

Focusing on the issue at hand, he tried to find another counterargument for the marriage, despite already knowing that Vitaly would not care for it, whatever it was. He had made up his mind and he expected his son to comply.

“The men won't like it. You know that. The Outfit has been our primary enemy for decades.”

“Times change, and we have to keep up with them. My men will accept whatever decision I make for the Bratva.”

It wasn't like Roman had another woman lined up for the role of his wife, but the thought of marrying someone so young didn’t sit well with him.

He had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with unnecessary drama, and teenage girls lived off of it.

He had a younger sister, so he should know.

The fact that said girl was Italian, no less, made his skin itch with irritation.

Italians were an obnoxious bunch, and he had no desire to fraternize with any of them—owner of a pussy or not.

Yet again, he didn’t have any grand ideals about love and marriage, so an arranged union didn’t give him as much pause as it should have. Marriage had never been a priority to him, but he wasn't against it, either. He just thought, when the time came, it was going to be to a woman of his choosing.

Not that anyone expected him to be faithful to his future wife, whomever she may be.

In fact, by Bratva standards, all married men had at least one woman on the side, sometimes more, depending on their status and wealth.

His father himself, as in love as he had been with his mother, had cheated on her regularly.

It was the norm in their world, and no one had batted an eye about it—not even his late mother.

Women in the Bratva were not seen as equals.

Their main job was to cater to their husband's desires and ensure the continuity of his bloodline. They were not to be seen or heard, especially if other Bratva men were around. While Roman didn’t agree with that vision of what family life should look like, he had never given it much thought.

The Bratva always came first—it was the motto repeated to him, over and over again, since he’d been old enough to understand how his father’s organization worked and its importance in the world.

Decades of history—from its inception in soviet Russia, all the way to its modern-day version that controlled a small part of America—were now resting on Roman’s shoulders.

Failure was not an option. It had never been.

“Survive at any cost” was more important than one man’s aspirations to any semblance of a personal life.

I have no family, I have no home, I have no name. I am the brotherhood and the brotherhood is me.

The oath he’d sworn at eighteen was still vivid in his mind, as if he’d said the words only yesterday. The Bratva was his family, his lover, his legacy and his entire future.

So, if his father asked him to sacrifice something he had never really cared about for the sake of their brotherhood, Roman couldn't say he had very much to lose in the first place.

Sensing an opportune moment to strike while the iron was hot, Vitaly decided to sweeten the deal a little bit. “If you do this, you can take that time off you've been pestering me about.”

Roman fought the childish urge to roll his eyes.

If Vitaly thought some time off was incentive enough for a forced marriage, he was clearly delusional.

Nonetheless, there was no getting out of it, and he did want that time to himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten to do something for his pleasure alone, and he craved it.

Son or not, Vitaly had never given him any preferential treatment.

He was a workaholic who ran a tight ship, even within his own family.

“Three weeks,” Roman said.

“Two weeks, not a day longer,” Vitaly made his first and final offer. “ After you get married.”

“Fine,” Roman conceded, knowing it was senseless to try and negotiate.

“Good. I will set up an official meeting for this Sunday. You have two days to buy a ring for the girl.”

Roman let out an amused breath through his nose. “I'm busy. Have Yana do it.”

Vitaly gave him a warning look. He was done with his show of defiance. “You will do it, and I will hear no more of it.”

Pushing to his feet, Roman was more than ready to leave. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

His father nodded, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.