Chapter 38 Roman
ROMAN
Iwatch Eva descend the staircase, and my breath catches in my throat like I'm some lovesick fool instead of a powerful Pakhan.
She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that hugs every curve, the fabric clinging to her fuller breasts, her slightly rounded stomach where our child grows.
Her blonde hair is loose and not in that maddening bun, cascading over her shoulders in waves that make my fingers itch to tangle in them.
The November cold has brought color to her cheeks, and when her brown eyes meet mine, I see curiosity mixed with wariness.
"You look beautiful," I say, my accent thicker than usual. Fuck, she does. Beautiful enough that I'm reconsidering this entire plan in favor of carrying her upstairs and reminding her exactly how good we are together.
"Thank you." She accepts the coat I hold out, and when my hands brush her shoulders, I feel her shiver. Not from cold. From awareness. The same electricity that's been crackling between us since the moment we met. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see." I guide her toward the SUV waiting in the circular drive, my hand on the small of her back. Even through the fabric, I feel the heat of her skin, and my cock stirs with interest despite my best efforts to remain focused.
The drive takes longer than usual, my driver navigating through evening traffic while I try not to stare at Eva's legs.
The dress has ridden up slightly, revealing pale thighs that I remember gripping while I was buried inside her.
I force my gaze to the window, to the city lights blurring past, anywhere except the woman beside me who's slowly driving me insane.
"Roman." Her voice is soft, questioning. "Are you okay?"
"Yes." The lie tastes bitter. I'm not okay. I'm watching my empire crumble, facing judgment from Moscow, and falling for a woman who should run screaming from everything I am. But tonight, I'm going to pretend none of that matters. Tonight, I'm just a man taking the mother of his child on a date.
The park appears through the darkness, secluded and quiet.
My security team swept it hours ago and positioned themselves at discrete distances where they can monitor without intruding.
The SUV stops near a large pond, its surface reflecting the city lights and the moon hanging fat and silver in the November sky.
Eva's eyes widen when she sees what I've arranged. A blanket spread on the grass near the water's edge, surrounded by battery-powered lanterns that cast warm light across the scene. Covered dishes wait on the blanket, steam rising from beneath their lids despite the cold air.
"You did this?" Her voice carries genuine surprise and something that might be pleasure.
"I wanted to give you something normal." I help her from the SUV, my hands lingering on her waist longer than necessary.
We settle onto the blanket, and I start uncovering dishes.
Blini with caviar, the kind my mother used to make when we could afford such luxuries.
Pelmeni, still hot from the thermos. Sparkling cider in crystal glasses because she can't drink alcohol while pregnant.
And the honey cake, medovik, that I had my chef recreate from memory of the one my mother made for special occasions.
Eva's eyes fill with tears when she sees the spread. "This is… Roman, this is Russian food. Real Russian food, not the Americanized versions."
"I thought you might miss home." I pour the cider, watching her face in the lantern light. She's so fucking beautiful, it hurts to look at her sometimes. "Tell me about your childhood. Before America. Before everything went wrong."
She takes a sip of cider, her gaze drifting to the pond's surface.
"We lived in a small town. Nothing special, just…
simple. Babushka Sasha had a garden where she grew tomatoes and cucumbers.
My mother would sing while she cooked, these old folk songs her grandmother taught her.
" Her voice softens with memory. "We were poor, but we didn't know it.
We had each other, and that felt like enough. "
I watch her lips move as she talks, remembering how they felt against mine, how they'd look wrapped around my cock. Focus, you bastard. This isn't about sex. This is about knowing her, understanding the woman carrying my heir.
"What made you come to America?" I ask, serving her blini.
"Dreams." She laughs, but there's bitterness in it.
"My mother believed America was the land of opportunity, where hard work actually paid off.
She wanted better for Alexei and me. So we saved every kopek, applied for visas, and came here when I was nineteen.
" Her brown eyes meet mine. "She died two years later, drowning in medical debt that American insurance refused to cover. Some opportunity."
The pain in her voice makes my chest tight. I reach out, cupping her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I'm sorry you lost her. Sorry you've had to fight so hard just to survive."
"What about you?" She leans into my touch, and the gesture sends heat straight to my groin. "Tell me about growing up in Moscow."
I withdraw my hand before I do something stupid like pull her into my lap.
"Brutal poverty in the 1990s. My parents worked themselves to death trying to keep us fed.
I watched them struggle and fail, watched the strong prey on the weak, and learned that mercy gets you killed.
" I take a drink of cider, the sweetness cloying on my tongue.
"I was fifteen when the Bratva recruited me.
Seventeen when I killed my first man. Nineteen when I earned these.
" I roll up my sleeve, revealing the prison tattoos that mark my forearms.
Eva's fingers trace the cathedral dome over my wrist, and her touch makes my skin burn. "What do they mean?"
"This one means I served time in Siberia. This star means I'm a Vor, a thief in law. These rings…" I point to the bands circling my fingers. "Each one represents a kill that earned me rank." I watch her face, waiting for disgust, for fear. But she just keeps tracing the ink with gentle fingers.
"When did you come to America?"
"Twenty-one. Fresh out of prison, with nothing but the clothes on my back and connections to the Bratva here.
" I capture her hand, pressing it flat against my chest where my heart pounds.
"That first winter was the loneliest of my life.
I missed the sound of Russian in the streets, the taste of proper black bread, the way snow falls in Moscow. "
"What do you miss most?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
The answer surprises me. "The simplicity of knowing who your enemies were.
In Russia, survival was straightforward.
Brutal, but honest. You knew who wanted you dead, and you dealt with them accordingly.
" I release her hand, pouring more cider.
"Here, everything is hidden behind corporate facades and legal maneuvering.
Sometimes, I miss the clarity of open warfare. "
Eva shifts closer, and I catch the scent of her perfume mixed with the cold November air. "I'm terrified," she admits quietly. "Of being a mother. Of bringing a child into your world where enemies hide behind smiles and violence is always one wrong move away."
"I'm terrified too." The confession tears from my throat, raw and honest. "That I'll fail to protect you both. That my enemies will use you as weapons against me. That I'll destroy everything I touch, including the only good things I have left."
Her brown eyes search mine, and I see understanding there. Recognition. We're both drowning in fear, both trying to survive in a world that wants to crush us.
"Kiss me," she whispers.
I don't need to be told twice. My mouth claims hers with desperate hunger, tasting cider and something sweeter, something uniquely Eva.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I groan against her lips.
My hand slides up her thigh beneath the dress, feeling the heat of her skin, the way she trembles at my touch.
"Roman." My name on her lips is half plea, half demand.
I lay her back on the blanket, covering her body with mine, feeling her curves press against me in all the right places. My cock is hard enough to hurt, straining against my pants, and when Eva's hand slides down to cup me through the fabric, I nearly lose control.
"Here?" I ask, my voice rough. "Anyone could see."
"Your security is watching anyway." Her fingers work my belt with surprising efficiency. "Let them watch. I don't care."
Fuck. I push her dress up to her waist, discovering she's wearing black lace panties that make my mouth water. I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull them down her legs, pocketing them with a possessive gesture that makes her gasp.
"Those are mine now," I growl against her neck.
I free myself from my pants, positioning myself at her entrance. She's already wet, ready for me, and when I push inside, we both groan at the sensation. She feels incredible, tight and hot and perfect, and I have to force myself to go slow, to savor this instead of rutting into her like an animal.
"Harder," Eva gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.
I oblige, setting a punishing pace that makes the blanket shift beneath us. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, and I lower my head to capture one nipple through the fabric of her dress, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. The sound echoes across the pond, and I don't give a fuck who hears.
Eva comes first, her inner walls clenching around me, her back arching off the blanket. The sight of her pleasure, the feel of her body convulsing beneath mine, triggers my own release. I bury myself deep and let go, groaning her name against her throat.
We stay frozen like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, our bodies still joined. The November cold seeps through my shirt, but I don't want to move, don't want to break this connection.
Finally, I withdraw and help her straighten her dress. She's flushed and disheveled, her hair tangled, her lips swollen from my kisses. She's never looked more beautiful.
The drive back to the estate passes in comfortable silence, Eva's hand in mine, her head resting on my shoulder. When we arrive, she kisses me goodnight at the base of the stairs, a soft, genuine gesture that makes my chest ache.
"Thank you," she whispers against my lips. "For tonight."
I watch her climb the stairs, her hips swaying, and force myself not to follow. She needs rest. The baby needs rest. And I need to maintain some semblance of control before I completely lose myself in her.
My study feels cold and empty after the warmth of Eva's presence.
I pour vodka, neat, and settle behind my desk.
The evening replays in my mind, every word, every touch, every moment of vulnerability we shared.
For a few hours, I wasn't the Pakhan. I was just Roman, a man falling for a woman who sees past the monster to something worth saving.
My phone rings, shattering the peace. The Moscow number makes my stomach clench with dread.
"Da," I answer.
"Roman." The voice belongs to one of my contacts back in Moscow. "I've just found out that delegates from the council have concerns about your ability to remain Pakhan."
"Da, I know that," I grumble irritably.
"Yes, but did you know they are on their way to America to observe you in person?"
I almost drop the phone in surprise. Fuck, this isn't good. Not good at all.