Chapter Nine
In which we learn that no, Roman does not have a stripper pole in his living room.
Violet…
How the hell did this happen?
I'm sitting in the back of an SUV with blacked out windows and a door that shut with a resounding 'thud!' making me jump halfway out of my seat.
"Sorry ma'am," Ivan smiles at me. "This car is bulletproof, so it's quite heavy."
"Oh, that's so cool!" Rose blurts. "So how many bullets can this sucker take?"
Ivan chuckles nervously, unprepared to open that can of worms, which raises him in my estimation. He's driving while I'm huddled with Iris and Rose in the back. Roman is in the passenger seat, still texting rapidly and there's another SUV following us.
"Can you drop me and the girls off at my friend Larry's?" I say calmly, a little proud my voice isn't quivering. "Poppy and Jack know nothing about him, other than he works with me. He just moved, in fact. No one's going to find him."
The son of a bitch doesn't even look up from his phone as his thumbs move at lightning speed. "I told you I would keep you safe, and I will. Dropping you off at a buddy's house in the Meatpacking District is not an option."
"Wait, how do you know where Larry lives?" I say accusingly. Rose and Iris seem far too happy about this, eagerly looking back and forth between Roman and me like they're playing a fierce round of Assassin's Creed.
He turns around, meeting my gaze, a slow grin curling his lips. "You already know I did a very thorough background check on you Violet. A deep dive."
My traitorous sisters giggle in a high-pitched tone more suited to a Japanese anime. "Okay –" I pinch the brow of my nose, trying to stem my spreading headache. "This is ridiculous. I'll rent a car and take us out of town."
"You're missing the point." Roman cuts me off. "If I could find you with a cursory search, Jack and whoever was involved tonight can find you just as easily. I won't repeat myself."
Oh, this bossy asshole…
"Then where are you taking us?" I snap.
He grins again, winking at my sisters and they giggle. Again. "I'm taking you to my place."
Why do I feel like I just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, dragging my two innocent sisters with me?
***
Roman's place is nothing like what I expected.
I've been picturing one of those glittering glass towers, like in the Hudson Yard billion-dollar development.
Tall, terrifying, and impersonal, maybe a penthouse filled with black-and-white furniture and deep gray walls.
Modern and extremely uncomfortable. Instead, the SUV turns down Commerce Street in the West Village.
"You live here?" I ask incredulously, looking at the tall, beautiful Federal-style houses. The SUV manages a sharp left into a narrow driveway and black iron gates close behind us.
"I do," Roman says, opening our car door for us.
"There's a great strip club right around the corner.
" The girls file out, smothering their grins as I glare at him.
"Be honest," he murmurs in my ear as he helps me out of the car.
"You thought I was going to be some bachelor asshole with a penthouse, right?
Maybe expecting a stripper pole in my living room? "
Stiffening, I give him a haughty glare. "That's not what I was thinking at all."
That's exactly what I'd been thinking.
"I was just concerned about my sister's safety."
He has the nerve to laugh in my face, his arms on either side of me, not quite pinning me against the SUV.
"Of course you were." Bending his elbows, he leans closer until his chest is just a hairs-breath from mine and whispers, "I can hardly wait to show you my bedroom and see if it's everything you thought it would be. "
Wedging one hand between us, I push him back - oh, his chest, nothing should feel this hard and sculpted - and slide under his arm. "This is in no way increasing my confidence in having my sisters here."
Roman laughs again, brushing his dark hair back and I catch a smear of blood on his gray shirt sleeve, a dull rust that still glimmers under the street light. There's more blood; I see it now, underneath his fingernails and caked in his calluses.
"I thought you said you didn't kill him?" I whisper furiously, grabbing his arm. His muscles tense, and the swell of his huge bicep is extremely distracting so I yank my hand away.
"I didn't." He sounds genuinely regretful. "I did pull one of his eyes out, though." He says this casually, as if informing me that he just ordered dim sum for a late dinner.
"You what?" I wheeze. Fortunately, Ivan already escorted the girls away from us and into the house.
We're alone in the dark driveway. The street is shockingly quiet, just the muted sound of traffic, the rustling of the trees and a quick burst of music as someone opens their car door down the street.
"Do you want me to lie to you at this critical juncture?" Roman asks, putting his bloody hand in his pocket.
Too late, pal. I've seen it and I can't unsee it now.
"No," I say, putting an awkward hand on my hip and swallowing hard, my dry throat making a clicky noise. "I just thought it would be a quick thing. The job. Jack is the job."
"I should've taken him to another location," Roman says a little crossly. "I knew he'd break under pressure like a little bitch so I thought I had time to question him there and do the job. Unfortunately, we were interrupted by a hail of bullets."
"Is there any chance that he got killed in the gunfire?" I say hopefully.
"I used him as a human shield, but unfortunately, he was still flopping around like a hooked trout when I stole his car and got out of there," he says, "which makes me more inclined to think they were there to protect him."
"Wait, hold up." I can't stop the huge grin spreading across my face. "You stole Jack's godawful pussy wagon of a Jaguar?"
Roman snaps his fingers "That's what it was missing! I was going to spray paint a tiny dick on the hood, but Pussy Wagon would've been so much better!"
I picture this giant Russian folding his long legs into the confines of Jack's horrible tricked-out Jaguar and peeling out in a blizzard of bullets, and I can't stop laughing.
Maybe the shock of the evening is catching up with me.
Maybe I'm just more unhinged than I knew.
But the vision almost makes the rest of the night worth it.
"Come on," Roman says between chuckles, sliding his arm around my waist. "Let me get you into the house.
We can't be out here laughing our asses off.
" He adopts a snooty tone. "This isn't that sort of neighborhood.
" His arm is warm and solid around my waist, his fingers curving reassuringly against my hip.
I don't shake his arm off as we walk into the house, I should.
Iris and Rose have made themselves at home in the living room. My parents might've been wealthy, but our home is nothing compared to the size and grandeur of Roman's place.
"Those ceilings…" I sigh, looking up at the beautiful crown molding on his sixteen-foot-high ceilings and the beautiful bank of windows looking out onto the street. Walking a little closer, I can see that he's added another layer of glass, cleverly concealed unless you're looking for it.
"They're bulletproof. Just like me, baby," Roman says as my sisters titter excitedly again. There's a red, blue, and gold rug covering a lot of the shining oak floor with a beautiful old-world design that makes me suspect it's from Russia.
Aside from very non-bachelor pad furniture like handmade antique tables and comfortable couches and chairs, I notice there's no personal touches.
No photographs of friends or family or mementoes from trips.
When he invites us into the kitchen, there's no notes on the giant subzero fridge.
No magnets holding casual pictures of brunch with his parents, or nights with drinking buddies.
Surprising, given what I know about the closeness of the Morozov family.
The kitchen is pristinely clean with a long shimmering granite island of charcoal gray laced with white and silver, and gorgeous black cabinetry.
"Are you hungry?" Roman opens the fridge invitingly, shelves stacked with tidy piles of pre-boxed meals. Each one is neatly labeled, with the words 'kale' and 'whole-grain' showing up a lot.
"You don't cook?" I ask.
"Not to save my life," he says. "Though god knows my poor mother tried to instill some ability to feed myself. But that's why they have chefs who can come to your home, create meals and stack them in the fridge."
Though we had just had dinner before Ivan came pounding on our door – a nice pork loin that I'd rubbed in rosemary salt with homemade stuffing - both girls perk up.
"I could eat, " Rose offers quickly, and he sweeps his arm dramatically, inviting her over, Iris right behind her. Roman pulls out a wine bottle, holding it up to me.
I'm really going to drink at the house of a relative stranger that I hired to murder somebody? It's not like it could get worse, right? Also, I really need that glass of wine right now.
"Yes please," I nod.
"Oh, me too!" Iris says, "And one for Rose."
"No," I say sternly. "You are eighteen, this is not a special occasion so you will not be having a glass of wine, especially after such a stressful evening."
"What, are you serious right now?" Rose's amber eyes, so much like mine, are blazing. "This is about as special of an occasion as any of us have ever had! We're in danger, thanks to our dick of a stepdad, and now we've been rescued by super hot Russians!"
"With tattoos," adds Iris.
"Yeah, okay. Fair enough." My headache's coming back. "One glass."
Iris beams, holding up two of Roman's crystal wine glasses. "To the top, sommelier!"
Roman plays along, flipping a white towel over his arm like a French waiter and displays the bottle to my sisters. "A Domaine d'Auvenay Les Folatieres Chardonnay, a light and serviceable vintage. It will pair well with your fish."