Chapter Sixteen #2
"That is the weirdest example of mutually assured destruction I've ever heard of." I shake my head, looking out the window. "It's even stranger because I'm a little proud that you told me. So, tell me where we're going again?"
Now, Roman's smile gets a little tarnished around the edges. "We're going to meet with my father, he is Pakhan of the Morozov Bratva."
"What?" I screech. I'm wearing a casual summer dress and sandals.
My hair is up in a ponytail. This is not 'meet the Pakhan' presentable.
"Why? Why does he want to see me? Your dad's probably a busy man, right?
I mean, he's got a lot of things to juggle.
I don't know most of them, of course, but I'm sure they're all very complex-"
His finger presses against my lips. "You're spiraling. Take a breath. It is not unreasonable for my father to want to know about the person who's occupied a great deal of my time and my home."
"He knows that?" I squeak.
"There is complete transparency between me, my father, and my brothers," he says. "There has to be."
"How could you let me go out of the house looking like this! I should be wearing a power suit and- and a tiara!"
Roman's laughter is cut short as something smashes violently into the back of the car.
In the rearview mirror, I see the dark grill of a truck as it accelerates into the back of Roman's three-million-dollar sports car.
I don't know why the price tag is the first thing that comes to me but stupidly, I wonder how expensive the repair bill is going to be.
Roman curses savagely and his foot jams on the gas as he hands me his phone. "Press star three," he orders. "That sends an emergency signal and our location."
The truck races after us through a red light, sending cars spinning and one going up on the curb and crashing into a street light.
It's bearing down on us, it's enormous, one of those monster delivery trucks that could be carrying anything from furniture to nuclear waste.
The sunlight flashes off the windshield, I can barely see the face of the driver before he hits us again.
"Is someone really trying to kill us in the middle of 39th Ave?" I grip the dashboard.
"It's all about opportunity," Roman says, too casually for my comfort.
"What can I do?" I ask.
"Keep your seatbelt on and bend over, wrap your arms around your knees.
They're going to start shooting." He says this with a terrifying confidence that is immediately reinforced as his back window cracks into a jagged spiderweb as a bullet hits it.
And then another. Roman takes the next left on two wheels, the sports car handling the turn better than the truck, which skids onto the sidewalk and into a brick building before reversing out onto the street again.
"That stupid son of a bitch is still coming after us?" The truck's grille is hanging off one side and the headlight is shattered, but he's moving up on us again.
"They are," Roman agrees. "They know that if we weren't trapped on a crowded street, I could hit the gas and we'd disappear in seconds. Here, though, the heavy truck is giving them an edge." He pulls his gun out of the holster in his jacket.
"Do you want me to try to shoot them?" I ask. "You said I was a natural. I could see if I could get them off our tail." I really don't want to.
"You're keeping your head." He sounds pleased. "I've got it, but thank you." He rips the steering wheel into a violent right and the car's rear wheels spin as he pulls us into a ridiculously tight U turn.
We are speeding down the street toward the truck.
Sweet Mother Mary, it's truck vs. sports car.
I'm pretty sure we're going to lose in a head-on collision.
I swallow my scream, watching the truck get closer.
It's only been seconds and Roman's abrupt maneuver seems to have startled the other driver and he's not getting into our lane yet.
Roman's window goes down and as he passes them, he fires three shots through their windshield.
Three precise strokes of his finger on the trigger and I see a huge splatter of red go across the side window as we pass it.
The truck rolls to a stop, crunching into a car parked at the curb. There's dead silence for a moment as Roman puts his gun back in the holster. His phone rings and he pushes the speaker.
"Brother, are you alive?"
"Clearly," Roman says, "since I picked up the phone. The threat has been neutralized, but we need someone on the scene to identify those stupid fucks."
"I have a team in pursuit. They're two blocks away," his brother says. "They'll be there before the police arrive."
"Good," Roman says, still expressionless like they were talking about picking up their dry cleaning or going out for drinks after work. "See if you can pull a survivor from the truck."
"We will," the man says. "I'm assuming you're leaving the site because you have your Violet in the car. It's killing you that you can't go after them yourself, isn't it?"
"Dmitri, don't be such a colossal prick," Roman scolds. "Just get me someone to question." He puts the phone back on the magnetic holder on the dashboard and puts his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two, driving as sedately as he can with the Bugatti's bumper dragging behind us.
My mouth is opening and closing. I don't have enough words to form a coherent sentence yet. Out of all the issues here that I should be addressing, one fights its way to the forefront. His Violet? His family thinks we're together?
Finally, "Was that one of your brothers at command central?"
"We don't call it that," Roman says. "Yes, that was my brother Dmitri."
"Oh," I say, trying to sound like I hadn't just been in a shootout. "He seemed very concerned about you. That's nice to have a family that cares about you that much."
"He does." Roman says it with such certainty that my heart aches. It's wonderful that he has people firmly at his back. "I apologize, darling, we won't be meeting with my father today. I'm going to have some work to do."
I think about what he said about 'retrieving' someone from the wreckage. My toes curl as a chill goes through me. "So, is this like… like playtime, then?"
Never taking his eyes from the road, he lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing the back and then the palm. It's disconcertingly intimate.
"Yes darling. It's playtime."