Chapter 22
22
Roman
D amn this fucking idiot opportunist. I can’t blame him for following me—a photo of me will always sell—but did it have to happen now?
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Kazanov,” the paparazzo says, scratching his ass as he turns away. “Sorry for the intrusion.”
“You got a job to do, friend,” I reply. “But remember not to push your luck.”
He nods. “You got it. So long.”
Unlike Quinn, the man strolls away like he has all the time in the world. She looked like she wanted to run as fast and as far as she could.
Understandable. I fucked her face in public, then posed for a photo like it never happened. Worst of all, I denied even knowing her.
I have my reasons. It won’t do to have anyone know how obsessed I’ve become. Leon and Viktor are not guys I have to worry about, but even their good-natured jibes are getting to me.
There are only two options: keep her a secret or draw her so deep into my dark world that she might drown. Neither is palatable, but a man like me does not have the luxury of dating and seeing how it goes. Not when the woman in question is a civilian.
With mafia princesses, it’s always arranged ahead of time, a done deal. By the time you go on the first date, you’re already engaged, and whether or not you actually like each other is irrelevant.
I’ve always said I wouldn’t play those games, so I had no attachments or liabilities. When Bianca died, I lost the last person who truly mattered. Now her home is boarded up, a ruin, and I thought my heart was the same, but I'm no longer so sure.
I got what I wanted, or at least some of it; I felt Quinn’s mouth on my cock, drenched her in my come, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I could demand she close the bakery right now, but Katrina is there, and I don’t want to put the girl in an awkward position. I’m far more interested in what positions I can get Quinn into?—
My cell is ringing. It’s Leon, probably wanting me to rain down my vengeful ire on some unfortunate fuckwit who’s tried to play games with my organization.
I set off walking, kicking a trashcan in fury as I slide the button to green. “What?” I snap.
“Hi, babe.”
“Don’t call me ‘babe,’ you idiot.”
“Aw, come on,” Leon laughs. “Who else loves you like I do? Only your tailor and that's because you pay him a fortune. It's not your fault you have to get all your pants taken in at the crotch.”
“I’m not engaging with this. It’s too childish.”
“Okay, so you’re all business? Then listen. Vercotti got pissed with Lubomski at the brunch and slapped the fuck out of him for hiring some no-mark to take you out. He's backing off from any more hits; apparently, he changed his mind and would rather see you suffer.”
I give a sharp bark of laughter. “Ha. If Vercotti hasn’t balls enough to take me on himself, how’s he gonna torture me instead? Invite him round, and I’ll get him to sing; that’ll do it. Remember that wedding last year? I thought someone would shoot him during his Nessun Dorma.”
“Puccini was probably spinning in his grave. But mediocre opera skills aside, I wouldn’t write Vercotti off too soon. Pay a few watchers and snitches well enough to come down on our side and see if we can get ahead of any nasty little skirmishes. Petty disputes can still get ugly.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it.”
Leon hisses through his teeth. “My bad. I forget sometimes. I’ll make it happen and let you know if we need to be scary.”
I hang up and consider my options. It’s part of my job to make a show of strength; a man tried to have me killed, and while that’s hardly a unique event in the criminal underworld, this is my city. I should make an example of Vercotti, so my enemies know they better shoot straight the first fucking time.
I return to my car and slump in the driver’s seat, watching people enter and leave the bakery. Ordinary people who want coffee and cakes and presumably think Quinn is a regular person, like them. A young woman with a shy smile, bright eyes, and a mouth that can milk every last drop of come from my balls.
Except the last part, of course. Only I know that, and there’s more to know. So much more.
I can keep Quinn a secret. In fact, I have to; letting her go is unfathomable. I may as well cut my own fucking leg off, or gouge out my eyes. At least then, I couldn’t watch her all the time.
I’m furious at the thought that her customers are giving her their orders, saying please and thank you like she’s just a shop girl and not the princess who has me helplessly in her thrall.
My mother used to tell me a tale about a sea nymph, a rusalka , who had been hurt by humans too many times. Her trust and kindness were eaten away, replaced by bitterness and an urge for revenge.
She draped her beautiful body over the rocks and sang songs of desire and longing, her voice carrying on the salt breeze to the ships that came close to her bay. The sailors followed the sound, captivated by the promise of romance with this ethereal creature, only for their boats to be dashed to splinters on the jagged coastline.
As a kid, I always thought it was a weird bedtime story. No woman could have that kind of hold on a man, so I figured he’d have to be pathetically weak-willed to fall for it. Mama laughed and said I'd missed the point.
“A wronged woman has strength, Roman,” she would say as she stroked my hair. “She has pain in her heart, and knowing that can drive the man who loves her to insanity. Beware the angel with steel inside; she'll be the one you can't quit.”
My mother was right. When I first met Quinn, I saw her bowed head, compliance, and innocent na?veté. Yet I also couldn’t miss her skittishness—the darting eyes, the hypervigilant glances. Her pain has gotten under my skin, and I’m eaten up with fury.
I will find out who hurt my Quinn and see them suffer far worse.
My train of thought is derailed by a familiar figure heading for the bakery. If that's who I think it is, I have to intervene.
I step out of my car and shout. “Silvio!”
Vercotti gawps at me, his gold tooth catching the sun. As heads my way, I have a short debate with myself in my head. Do I need my gun? No. It’s broad daylight on my turf, and he wasn’t looking for me; he has not long since finished brunch at a place a block away. Can’t mention that, of course.
“Roman.” Silvio Vercotti stops beside the hood of my car, maintaining some distance so he doesn’t feel obliged to shake my hand. I want to tell him to fuck himself after what Leon told me, but I can’t blow Lubomski’s cover by letting on that I know.
“I haven’t seen you out and about in a while,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“Cut the shit,” he snaps. “I heard someone put a hit out on you.”
“Yeah. Bit fucking dramatic, right?” I smile at his irritation. “If they had succeeded, there’d have been a full-scale war. This city would have been torn apart.”
Silvio sniffs derisively. “It didn’t happen. Whoever it was probably won’t try it again. Most mafia men can’t buy as many friends as you can.”
“Not all my friends are bought and paid for, and you know it— you were one of them.” I narrow my eyes at him. “My people wonder why I don’t call you to heel. Some think I should kill you and steal your assets. But I don’t like to do business that way, and we were comrades once. Do you hate me so much just because I warned you off Bianca?”
“She and I loved one another.” The seething resentment in his voice catches me off guard. “The streets ran with blood back then at your hands, and you thought you could keep that girl out of the mess you were making? She only got with Antonio because you wanted to see her married to a guy who wasn’t part of our dirty world. And look what happened. He got pulled into the hell we created, and she paid with her life.”
I can stand no more. “If Bianca loved you so much, why did she kill herself? She was pregnant, Silvio. You knew that. Why would my sister shoot herself if she wasn’t heartbroken?” I clench my fists. “You’re deluded. It’s sick.”
“Whatever you say.” Silvio shrugs and gives me his back. “I’m going to get coffee and a cake. You’re welcome to stay right here or go fuck yourself someplace else, but this conversation is done.”
The thought of him speaking to Quinn enrages me. There’s no way I’m letting him walk in there; he’s a rude, arrogant piece of shit, and now he’s in a bad mood.
If he so much as looks at my woman in a way that upsets her, I’ll be left with no choice but to cave in his skull on the sidewalk, in full view of the patrons. Even with my considerable leverage with the law, it’d be hard to get away with that one.
I get in my car and slam the door, firing up the engine. Am I gonna do this?
Fuck yes. Silvio Vercotti is a lying, overreaching weasel, and he tried to have me killed. All things considered, I’ve shown a lot of restraint, but now I’m gonna let off a little steam.
Silvio steps aside as I drive slowly behind him. As I gather speed to pass, he flips me off, and I make my move, turning the wheel sharply. The car bumps twice as the front and rear tires run over the whole of Silvio’s left foot.
“Arrgh!” he cries. “You psychotic cunt!”
I wind down the window as I pull away. “Takes one to know one. As the saying goes—better watch your fucking step.”