Chapter 13
ROMAN
Three hours earlier:
The impact of the hit explodes up my arm, thundering through my shoulder as my fist connects with the practice bag. I dodge left, feinting another hook to my imaginary opponent as I duck, weave, then go on the attack again.
Pound. Pound. POUND.
Ideally, I should be taking out my pent-up energy and snarling darkness on a real opponent at one of the underground fights I go to. That’s historically how I’ve blown off steam, how I've battened down the corruption inside of me—that fucking flaw that makes me so weak at times.
And yes, I’m aware of how fucked up it is to call whatever it is that rises up inside me when I'm around Val a flaw, or corruption.
But hey. Welcome to the wonderful world of self-loathing.
I halt myself mid-swing, letting my fist barely tap the bag before I slump against it, my arms wrapped around it. My chest heaves with my labored breath, sweat running in rivulets down my bare back and arms.
There are so many things I want to tell myself. So many tried and true mantras that I’ve repeated hundreds of times.
I’m not gay.
I’m not attracted to men.
I fucking like women.
I’m straight.
But every single one of them, just like all my strength, power and control, shatter to nothing whenever I’m around that motherfucker.
Whenever I even think of him.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I grit my teeth.
It’s getting harder and harder to look at myself in the mirror and try to tell myself that I’m not into men when lurid, vivid images of what happened the other day keep roaring through my head and turning my world upside down.
Turning my blood to fire.
Turning my cock to steel.
Because the fucked-up reality is that I fucking loved it.
A lot.
I came harder with Val’s hand around my dick than I have ever come before, either by myself or with a woman.
It was Val, not me, I tried to tell myself. It was his constant attention on me.
His fault I came so fucking hard jerking his dick while he jerked mine.
His fault I came a second time with his lips wrapped around my cock, so hard that I almost blacked out.
The other day, after what happened, and after he ignored my messages trying to apologize for accidentally smacking him—and, well, for freaking out a little—I decided I needed to “course correct”.
I ended up calling Tiffany, one of my very, very few “repeats”.
We’ve hooked up dozens of times in the past: I call her when I’m fucked up, she comes over or tells me where to find her, we fuck, often without even really getting undressed, and then either I leave or she does immediately after.
We don’t talk about our lives, or what we’re thinking or feeling.
In fact, I’m not sure we’ve ever had what you could call a conversation.
It’s perfect.
And that, I reasoned, was exactly what I needed.
So I called her—drunk, of course—and invited her over to my place.
Except the second she walked in the door, and slipped off her jacket, and winked as she twirled and showed me the lacy, see-through lingerie underneath… I was immediately disinterested.
Completely.
All the womanly aspects of her that I had buried myself in before—the big, full tits, the round hips, the long, silky hair, the pouty lips…
They were a fucking turnoff. Like legit a total erection killer.
It was like she was too soft. Too curvy. Too weak. Too…feminine.
Fucking HELL.
I don’t even want to say it in my own head, but I know what was missing, and what wasn’t there that would have made me hard.
Rough edges. Sharp lines. Muscles and grooves. A stubbled jaw. Hard, glinting eyes. An even harder cock.
Jesus.
I exhale again, grunting as I give the practice bag a cheap shot to its kidneys and then turn to grab some water. I yank off my gloves, tossing them aside as I pick up the bottle.
I’ve considered the possibility of erectile dysfunction. Or low testosterone?
Yeah, no. Those fly out the window when I wake up in the middle of the night from lurid dreams involving Val stroking my cock. Dropping to his knees and looking up at me, wrapping his lips around my swollen dick. Forcing me to mine…
I shiver and swallow.
Yeah, that's a no to low T or my dick not working. Because waking up from those dreams, I’m hard enough to bend steel.
…Hard, twitching, and fucking leaking precum to the point where finishing myself off isn’t even an option, it’s fucking mandatory.
I take another gulp of water and glance at my phone. There’s no notifications on the screen, but I open it and check my messages anyway.
Nothing from him.
Not. At. All.
Fuck.
“You win?”
I startle, then turn with a grin as Stepan walks into the gym at my father’s house.
Yes, I still have my membership at Equilibrium.
No, I haven’t been able to set foot in the place after the events of a few days ago.
“Meh, a draw,” I shrug, nodding at the practice bag. “Motherfucker has a sick left hook.”
“Fucking southpaws,” Stepan grins. “Get you every time.”
Then he frowns. “Don’t you usually work out at that fancy Midtown place? With the hot girls working the front desk and that sweet steam room?”
I swallow uncomfortably. “Uh-huh,” I grunt.
He shrugs. “Nothing against your father’s gym, but—”
“They’re doing some renovations,” I lie.
“Ahh,” Stepan nods and then clears his throat. “Well, I hate to break things up before the rematch with the southpaw, but your father wants to see you upstairs.”
I catch the t-shirt that Stepan throws at me.
“About?”
“I don’t know, Roman,” he sighs. “Probably nothing to do with your eventual ascension to the throne, including the seat at the Iron Table. I’m sure he just wants to know how your day is going and ask if you caught the Islanders game last night.”
I frown as I tug on the shirt. “Joke's on him. I don’t watch hockey.”
Stepan shakes his head. “Criminal, how America has turned the sons of so many great Russian pakhans off the glorious sport of ice hockey.”
“It’s boring and cold. If I want to watch fights, I’ll watch boxing, where they actually know how to throw a punch.”
He mutters in Russian. “Boring? Hockey is the sport of warriors. It’s what turns boys into men. It makes you strong! Tough!”
I chuckle. “That’s what football is for, Stepan.”
He dismisses me with a wave. “Bah—American football. No footwork involved, and the game stops every three goddamn seconds.” He grins at me. “Shall I take you to your father now?”
“By all means.”
“We need to move up the timeline.”
It’s me, Stepan, five of my father’s top avtoritets, and Pavel himself. He scowls, drumming on his desk with one hand while bringing the crystal tumbler of vodka to his lips with the other.
“I can reach out to Lukashov and see…” Stepan begins slowly.
“Do it,” my father grunts. “I want this marriage signed and sealed before Vaughn fucking Bancroft has Cosimo wrapped around his goddamn finger.”
“Sangrini is famously impartial though, no?” Boris, one of my father’s captains, ventures.
“And he has no children of his own. The way to an alliance with him is through his goddaughter Dasha,” he shrugs.
“And pakhan, you have that buttoned up, eh?” He grins and reaches over to pat me heavily on the shoulder.
“Not that Roman here is going to be suffering, hmm?”
He holds his hands out in front of his chest like he’s squeezing a huge pair of tits, and the room, predictably, erupts in laughter.
My father chuckles, but then shakes his head. “Who knows. Maybe Cosimo…you know…” he grins and holds up a limp wrist. “Is a pidoraz, eh?”
The captains hoot to each other, mimicking my father’s limp-wrist and his vulgar gay slur.
“You think Cosimo likes the boys, eh, boss?” Andrey, another captain, asks with a chuckle.
“Who knows,” Papa shrugs. “But… That Vaughn is a sneaky little motherfucker. If Cosimo is…” He lifts a limp wrist again. “Maybe Vaughn decides to be a pidoraz too and fuck Cosimo up the ass, eh?”
More hoots and hollers. I force a strangled smile to my face.
My father suddenly scowls and swears in Russian. “Vaughn might not be a pidoraz,” he grunts, “but his brother is. The sissy that dances with my Evelina.”
My jaw suddenly tenses so hard that my teeth hurt. My hand curls to a fist on the armrest of my chair and my drink turns acrid in my mouth when I take a sip.
Dad frowns. “Stepan.”
“Boss?”
“Look into it.”
Stepan’s brow furrows. “Into…?”
“Cosimo. I want to know if he takes it up the ass.”
Stepan looks mildly amused as he lifts a brow. “Boss, I’m fairly certain he likes women…”
So am I, and I barely know the guy. But he’s wealthy beyond belief and powerful beyond comprehension.
He also isn’t part of the old-school circle jerk of toxic masculinity that the Bratva tends to be.
If he was gay, there’s literally no reason Cosimo would feel the need to hide it, or mask it behind the women he’s frequently spotted with in exotic locales.
“Well, find out for sure,” Papa snaps. “Immediately.”
“Da, pakhan,” Stepan nods curtly.
“Good. Although, fuck, if he is…” Papa chuckles. “We’re fucked. It’s not like we’ll find a butt-boy in the Bratva to go fuck him like a little sissy bitch.”
The captains erupt in laughter. Stepan smiles automatically and glances at me, shrugging.
When the meeting is over, Papa stops me.
“Don't go yet, Roman.”
“Of course, Papa.”
He pours us both another drink and passes mine to me before he takes a seat behind his desk again.
“Take down this address.”
I frown, nodding. Papa rattles off an address in Bay Ridge, which I type into a note on my phone.
“What is this?”
“A new safe house. Off the books, for when I want nobody to know what I’m doing.” Papa clears his throat. “We’re going to discuss some potential very good news about the Norton Avenue project.”
My brows arch.
Bane’s father and mine are heavily, and jointly, invested in massive construction project in Queens: a high-rise that’ll include a hotel, luxury apartments, high-end shopping, and fine dining.
“How good of news?”