25. Roman
TWENTY-FIVE
Roman
I’m trying not to ruin this for Lucas because I can tell this has been a fantastic day for him. For me, this afternoon of shopping has been more torturous than the two days I spent in the stocks with my back lashed into a shredded mess as punishment for killing a guard.
And this part, now, having Lucas sitting in a barber’s chair while another man is touching him …
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I can feel Quinn watching me as I pace around the otherwise empty, upscale barbershop. I’m mostly okay with Quinn now. After the incident in the kitchen, I was forced to recognize that he is, in fact, trustworthy.
Quinn has often been the only one in the house with Lucas when I’m gone, so I think I already realized, subconsciously, that he’s safe.
The truth is, I wouldn’t have made it through today without him. With all the doors, windows, and people, there was simply too much for me to keep watch of. Quinn remained vigilant in every store, covering any gaps in my awareness and allowing me to devote at least a portion of my attention to the one thing I actually wanted to pay attention to: Lucas.
He’s been a little stubborn about money. I think he imagined some kind of thrift store shopping venture. When he saw the prices on the shoes, he froze. I had to loom over him and make very clear that it was not the moment to push his boundaries.
All my money from before my capture only grew while I was gone. That didn’t mean anything to me when Vitali and I first talked about it, but it sure as hell means something to me now that I’ve realized it will enable me to take care of Lucas like he deserves.
Today, I made him understand that he’s going to let me do that.
The way he got all choked up only renewed my determination to kill his piece-of-shit stepfather for making him think he doesn’t deserve to be taken care of. Lucas didn’t say that was what was going on in his head, but I could tell.
So I have to not fuck this up right now.
But goddamn it, it’s taking everything in me not to snatch those scissors from the barber’s hand and stab them into his neck for touching my man.
When Lucas signals the barber to pause and gets up from the chair, littering the ground with light brown hair trimmings, I halt. Did I miss something? Did the barber do something wrong?
Lucas’s concern, however, is focused solely on me. He walks up to me, pulling his hands from under the black cape and putting them on my chest.
“Everything is fine,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. Fuck. I’m ruining everything after all. I close my eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“It’s okay.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
I draw in a shuddering breath and let it out. Lucas’s hands stay on my chest the whole time. I hate that he can probably feel how my heart is racing. I think it’s been racing all day.
“We’re almost done,” Lucas says. “I want it to look good.”
I take a second to really look at the style. A fade cut with more length on top. The texturing is almost done and, yeah, it looks great. Lucas is so fucking beautiful he can get away with anything he wants, but this cut really shows off the line of his neck and the angles of his face.
I glance past him to the barber, John, who’s watching us nervously. I know he’s fine. He used to cut my hair years ago when I kept it longer. Now, I’m more comfortable with my buzzcut, though I’ve given it a fade style so that I don’t look so much like a convict.
I return my attention to Lucas. “It does look good,” I tell him.
He smiles. “It will.”
“It does .”
He pushes me slightly, though I barely rock from it. “Go sit down. Please, Roman.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Almost done,” he reminds me.
I grunt in acknowledgement, but Lucas waits for me to comply. I’m not blind to the fact that I obey for him in a way I would never do for anyone else.
Even before the prison, I was a pain in the ass, always after Vitali to stop letting our uncle run everything, always pushing.
But I do what Lucas tells me.
I walk over to one of the couches and sit down, the vinyl creaking under me. As Lucas returns to the barber’s chair, he glances over his shoulder at me, smiling slightly.
As the work on Lucas’s hair resumes, I bounce my knee and divide my attention between him and the long stretch of street-facing glass. Quinn is standing near the door, also watching the street.
He’s wearing a jacket because the April air is cool. It hides the burn scars on his forearms. That’s all I’ve ever seen of his body, but it makes me wonder about the rest, wonder what happened to him. Maybe people wonder about me too.
When the haircut is done, Lucas comes to me with a grin. I pop up, relieved that it’s over and I made it through the whole thing without violence.
Lucas must be relieved too because he says, “Thank you,” as he wraps his arms around me.
Fuck, he’s sweet. I know I don’t deserve him, but I will never, ever give him up.
After paying, I check my phone—god, it’s weird to have a phone again—and see that time is running short. I’m supposed to meet Vitali and Anton at the club this evening. I don’t have time to ride home with Lucas first. I know he’ll be fine with Quinn, but I still hate it.
As I open the car door for Lucas, Quinn, walking around to the driver’s side, says, “I’ll drop you off at the club before I take Lucas home.”
I shake my head. “I’ll walk.”
Quinn frowns, not liking it, but I ignore him to focus on Lucas, who’s hovering on the sidewalk by the open car door. He’s also frowning.
My nerves are shot and I feel sick, and apparently that’s more obvious than I would like.
“Cancel,” Lucas pleads.
I shake my head again. I’m just starting to settle into my place again in the Constantine world. At first, I didn’t care about that—hell, at first I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around it—but now it’s different.
The Constantine world is one I know. Outside of my cell or a fighting ring, it’s the only world I belong in. Transitioning back into it hasn’t been smooth. Honestly, there are moments when I still want back in my cell.
But …
I want to give Lucas a life, a good life. I want to give him more days like today, and I can only do that as a Constantine.
I nod him toward the back seat. He doesn’t look happy, but he gets in. The life I can provide for him will mean us not being together at every moment. I hate it, but that’s reality.
I close the door and start walking away because it’s easier than watching him leave me as they drive off. Besides, I can tell that Lucas’s eyes are following me. He knows I’m on edge.
That’s why I want to walk. I’m hoping the movement and a solid fifteen minutes of not interacting with people will help.
It doesn’t.
Not at all.
I had been doing better with the sensory chaos of the city—cars, lights, buildings, people on the sidewalks—but I can’t get out of my hypervigilant mode. By the time I reach the club, I’m even more tightly wound.
Sasha opens the door for me, and I step into the club with relief. It isn’t open yet, so it’s dim and quiet. We’re meeting early because of me. Last time I was here, with all the noise and lights and people, something happened in my head. It was kind of like déjà vu, but I somehow disconnected. I walked out into the street like I was sleepwalking.
Vitali caught up with me and grabbed my shirt, yanking me back onto the sidewalk and out of the path of an oncoming car. Normally, being grabbed like that would’ve triggered me to attack him, but I was in such a weird headspace that I just stared at him. I couldn’t even hear him talking to me.
I have absolutely no idea what happened.
This is the first time I’ve been in the club since that incident. As I approach the bar, where Vitali is pouring whiskey, the way my brother looks at me tells me he’s thinking about it too.
But we certainly won’t be discussing it in front of our uncle, who’s sitting at the bar with a glass of undoubtedly Greek wine. I’ve never been sure if Vitali hates Anton as much as I do, but he certainly has equal cause. The strain, however, predates either of us.
According to Vitali, Anton and our father never got along. As a kid, I wasn’t really aware of it, but Vitali was because he was the one being groomed to take our father’s place. He ended up having to do that far earlier than anyone could ever have expected, so it was good, I guess, that our father rode him so hard about learning the business. At seventeen, Vitali became head of our branch of the family.
No one but Vitali, at that age, could have held his own against our uncle. He was prepared—and had no delusions about Anton. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t surprised that our uncle blamed our father for the car wreck that killed him and our mother, plus Anton’s wife and son. I do get that Anton was grieving too, but I will never forgive him for slapping Vitali in the face at the funeral and telling him that it was for our father’s sin.
I think that was the first time I lost my shit. The whole thing is a blur, but I do remember that when Anton’s men took me down, pinning me to the ground, Vitali put a gun to one of their heads and made them get off me.
I’ve hated Anton since that day. Even four years ago, Vitali was ten times the man Anton ever was, and the imbalance is even more obvious now.
Anton is too old fashioned, wanting to run shit like it’s still the 1980s. Without Vitali, the whole Constantine operation would collapse.
I’m sure that’s why he’s at a family meeting with one of his goons right beside him—so he can look like the big man.
Or maybe it’s because of me, because he knows that I hate him and he knows that, with me back, he’s outnumbered again. Of course, there’s also the fact that he saw what I did to Liam Crowley.
There was a time in my life when I would’ve made some sneering comment about him not leaving his muscle at the door, but I don’t think that part of me will be coming back. I don’t waste words anymore.
“You want anything?” Vitali asks as I take a seat, leaving one empty between me and Anton.
Ever since Lucas and I escaped, I’ve felt no impulse to drink, but I used to drink a lot. That remembrance comes back to me now like so many things keep coming back to me.
It’s fucking exhausting to have the past intruding all the time, having to weigh it against the present, having to decide, again and again, which one I really am. I hate it so much, but my brain won’t stop doing it.
Right now, with my nerves so fucking shot, I don’t know how to decide, so I just freeze at Vitali’s question.
Vitali stills slightly. He’s not intuitive like Lucas, but he’s been paying such close attention to me that he clearly notices I’m kind of off right now.
God, I just want to go home. I want to be with Lucas. I’m tired. I don’t feel good.
Vitali doesn’t press me for an answer. He just grabs another glass. A cufflink glints on the sleeve of his white shirt as he pours. Even with the tattoos peeking out from his cuffs and collar, he looks sharp. In control.
I was never like that, even before.
As Vitali slides the glass to me, my hand curls automatically around it in a way that’s both familiar and foreign. More of the déjà vu that I can’t seem to escape. My eyes flick to my uncle.
He’s watching me warily, though he hasn’t yet said anything to me. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen him since the night I killed Crowley in the boxing gym locker room. No word has been uttered between us in four years.
He says, “So. You’re alive.”
My hand tightens on my glass.
Vitali says, saving me, “This is what we need to talk about.” He slides a tablet across the bar, situating it between me and Anton.
The screen shows a man, neither young nor old, sitting on a café patio. He’s carefully nondescript and subtly covert in his jeans and jacket. A black ballcap and sunglasses partially obscure his face.
“Who the hell is that?” Anton asks.
“That’s FBI Special Agent Martin Cohen,” Vitali reports. “Head of the Boston field office.”
“So?” Anton challenges.
“ So .” Vitali swipes to another image of Cohen at the café but now seated with—
“Fucking Gavino DiMaggio,” Anton grumbles.
Gavino is the head of the DiMaggio family. Vitali has caught me up on our longstanding feud. The tension between our families goes back generations, but our father and Gavino worked out a truce with a territory division. That truce collapsed when I was captured.
Vitali has started asking me for details about that night, but I’m still locked out of that part of my memory.
“Who took these pictures?” Anton asks.
“One of my men,” Vitali answers. “I increased surveillance on the DiMaggios as soon as Roman … came back. I’ve now put two men on Cohen.”
Anton shakes his head. “Pull them back. I don’t want our men sitting on their asses when we’re already shorthanded from last month’s attack on our west side crew.”
“I’m not pulling them back. We need to know Cohen’s involvement with the DiMaggios. In fact, we need to get into his computer, into his phone, into his shit, so we can be prepared—”
“He’s a dirty agent, so what?” Anton cuts in. “Throw a stone in this city and you’re bound to hit one. We’ve got a dozen in our own pockets.”
As Vitali and Anton continue to argue, their words stop reaching me. I hear them, but my brain stops attaching any meaning.
In the same way, I still see where I am, but I feel distant from it, like I’m retreating into some space inside myself. The problem is that everything inside myself—past and present events, past and present emotions—is tangled as fuck.
Maybe that’s why I find myself lifting my tumbler of whiskey to my lips—a force of long-dormant habit.
The smell hits me first, a little sweet, a little sharp. Then the liquor stings my tongue and burns my nostrils.
I hear the familiar voices.
I see the lights glowing through the bottles on the shelves behind the bar.
My thoughts, already tangled, start spinning too fast to make sense of, so fast that the unsettled, queasy feeling I’ve had for hours intensifies until saliva pools in my mouth.
That should be a warning to me, but it’s not. I have no idea what’s going to happen until my stomach heaves.
I turn abruptly aside. As I throw up, I hear shouting. I see movement. But it’s when a stool bangs to the floor like a gunshot that I yank my pistol from the holster at the small of my back.
A figure launches over the bar, tackling me before I can take aim. The gun flies out of my grip as I’m slammed to the floor. I go instantly into fight mode.
My opponent is fast and vicious, jabbing me in the side as a distraction, twisting around behind me to go for a chokehold. I get up enough to shoulder toss him. He slams to the floor. I punch him in the face.
Guards swarm in to break up the fight, but it makes no sense. The fight isn’t over. I don’t get out of the ring until it’s done. Guns are leveled at me. For some reason, my opponent is shouting at them to not shoot.
Give him a second! Don’t fucking shoot!
My thoughts trip again. Chest heaving, head spinning, arm cocked back, I stare down at Vitali. His hand covers mine where it’s gripping his shirt. I let go of him, pulling free as I thump back onto my ass on the floor.
Vitali gathers himself up slowly. He motions the others back. Not guards, not prison guards anyway, not my handlers. It’s Sasha and Anton’s bodyguard. Anton himself.
I don’t look up, but I see my uncle’s feet. The way he shuffles. My mind trips again.
I force my eyes up, lifting them from his loose dress pants to his suitcoat to his wary, ruggedly handsome face. For a second, our eyes lock.There’s a question in his. Fear too. He looks to his bodyguard. He steps back.
Anton says, “He can’t be trusted.”
Vitali turns a glare on him and gets to his feet. “Fuck that. He just needs time. He just fucking got back, and we don’t really know what happened to him.”
“Don’t be a fool, Vitali. He’s—”
“My brother, and I’m taking him home, so just—” Vitali cuts himself off like he was about to say something disrespectful. He was always more controlled than me.
He offers me his hand. I can see in his tense body language that he half expects me to attack him, but I don’t. I don’t take his hand either. I can’t. I’m too shaky and I don’t want him to feel it. I’m too … self-conscious.
I hate it. I just want to go back. I want in my cell. I want to sit in a corner or lie on my mattress and have everything be simple and clear.
I want to be alone.
But somehow I get up.
I don’t really track the rest of it. There’s talking. Movement. Vitali collects some things from the bar, then he’s ushering me to the door.
The cool air wakes me up a little, enough that I can open the car door and get into the back seat. Vitali gets in the other side while Sasha drives.
I see her eyes in the rearview mirror. I feel Vitali’s from beside me.
After a while he says, “I’ve been looking for someone who can maybe help you.”
I don’t react. I don’t want to talk to Vitali. I just want to be alone.
Vitali sighs. “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”
My throat tightens, and I hate it. I wish I was angry. It’s so much safer to be angry. Instead I feel …
Fuck, I feel …
Scared.
I vaguely register Vitali texting someone. I vaguely register the passing miles.
We get home. I get out. I go to the door. When Lucas opens it, conflicting needs slam into each other.
I need to be alone.
But I also need …
He reaches out and takes my hand. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks with me through the house and up the stairs to our room. He closes us in. He starts undressing me.
He knows I don’t really like clothes. I prefer being naked. It’s more comfortable. There’s no pretense.
As I pull off my shirt, Lucas crouches to unlace my boots. I toe them off. I take off the rest of my clothes and walk with Lucas to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, avoiding the sight of myself in the mirror.
Lucas gets the shower going. He pulls me in to join him under the spray. Though there’s some contact, we don’t talk or get intimate. This shower is only for washing things away. Resetting.
After we’re done and dry, we get in the bed. Lucas intertwines himself with me, and it’s so, so much better than being alone.
I let myself exist in that for a long time. I let it center and calm me.
It’s safe to be with him. It’s okay that he sees me like this. I trust him.
Lucas whispers, “Will you tell me what happened?”
He doesn’t rush my response or get upset when I finally speak only to ask, “Vitali texted you?”
“Yes. But he didn’t say what happened. Only that …”
“That what?”
“That you needed me.”
Embarrassment flashes through me, but it fades quickly because it’s tied only to Vitali, not to Lucas. I did need Lucas. I do need him.
“I don’t know what happened,” I admit.
I didn’t tell Lucas about the time I walked out of the club into the street because it would’ve worried him. I’m worried. I’ve snapped plenty of times, but snapping makes sense to me. This kind of thing, however …
This is the second time that something truly weird has happened. I can’t explain it, and it freaks me out.
Lucas doesn’t push for what I can’t give, but he does ask, “Was it because you spent too many hours out with me today?”
“No.”
Lucas makes a sound like he’s not convinced, but it’s not a lie. Being already strained made me more vulnerable maybe, but something else happened. I think it was the alcohol. The smell of it. The taste. It tripped some wire in my brain.
I tell him, “I really liked being with you today.”
Lucas makes another disbelieving sound, and now I’m frustrated. “Why don’t you believe me?”
I feel him shrug. “It was hard for you.”
“I can like things that are hard for me.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
At first, I’m annoyed by his continued doubt. I don’t lie to him, and he surely knows that. But this isn’t about me. This is about Lucas not feeling good about me doing something for him when I was struggling with it.
I say, “I want more days like today. I want to take you out to dinner.”
“Really?”
“Lucas,” I groan. “Just believe me.”
“I just … I don’t want us to do things that aren’t good for you.”
“Being with you is good for me.”
He makes a happy sound and lays a hand on my face. “I love you, Roman.”
I pet his hair. “I love you too.”
As he snuggles into me and I wrap my arms around him, I’m amazed by how easy it was to say those words, how easy even to hear them. I haven’t spoken those words to anyone since my mother died, not even to Vitali. I never thought I would.
But I’ve spent a lot of years in silence. I know that truths can exist unspoken, and that truth has already long existed between Lucas and me.