Chapter 16 Ransome
RANSOME
“A round of drinks on me, for the newlyweds!” Dmitry Chadovich clamors from across the table where we are all seated.
It’s me, my father, Dmitry, Baron, Maverick, and of course, Jenica. These little cocktail meetings are routine now that we made the truce official. Tristan would normally be here too, if he wasn’t M.I.A.
Honestly, it’s all bullshit. Smoke and mirrors and rose-colored glasses and all that.
“We’ve been married for five months,” I say flatly.
“And I never properly congratulated you,” Dmitry says as the waiter brings over a tray of champagne flutes.
“Well, I for one will never turn down Dom Perignon.” Jenica smiles, taking a glass and also handing me one. She has her normal smile plastered on today. Underneath that facade and about three pounds of makeup is a girl who is silently screaming. But aren’t we all?
“To family and success,” Dmitry says, and we all clink our glasses together. “Na zdravje!”
After we all drink, Dmitry sets his glass down and reaches for the appetizers on the table. “I was hoping we could also use this time to talk business, as much as I hate to turn a celebratory event into work.”
Oh, brother…
I suck my teeth and lean back in my seat, my drink still in hand.
I am not a champagne fan. I find it foul, really.
But it’s alcohol, and if I don’t drink it, it looks bad.
Not that I care about looks. But I do care about this meeting being over as soon as possible, and the only way to make that happen is to play along.
“I must say, Dmitry, we have been a little on edge about the disappearance of your nephew as of late,” my father says.
My eyes dart between the two men sitting across from me with no movement of my head. It’s like watching a cock fight, and I’ve got money in the ring.
“We are concerned as well,” Dmitry says with a sad nod.
“So you’re saying you don’t know where Tristan’s hiding?” Maverick asks, and I shoot him a look, even though I was about two seconds from asking the same question.
“Of course not. My nephew is the rising Chadovich pakhan. His disappearance leaves us all unnerved,” Dmitry answers. The man is lying through his fucking teeth.
“I see,” my father says. “That must be very distressing for all of you.”
“Needless street fighting, that’s what leads to it all,” Jenica says, playing the game.
But I’m done.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not buying it.”
The table turns to me. Jenica stiffens, reaching for her drink, and I can feel the heat of my father’s eyes.
I don’t give a rat’s ass, though.
“I find it hard to believe that Tristan just took off with no correspondence. That none of you know where he is or what he’s up to. I always know where my men are.”
“So none of your affairs are left with loose ends?” Dmitry asks, and I know full well what he’s hinting at.
That he’s talking about Amara. I didn’t doubt that it would be impossible to bring her back here without anyone knowing about it.
If the Chadovichs are anything like the Rozanovs (and they are, in a Bratva sense), they have eyes everywhere.
“My family is under control, yes. My control.”
“And that includes the El Paso deal.” My dad shifts the conversation away from my private life and Tristan. He’s made it clear that talking about Tristan is beating a dead horse. Not that I believe the horse is truly dead yet.
El Paso was a project under locks just six months ago, but the shootout at the warehouse blew that wide open.
So of course the Chadovichs are aware of it all now.
The implosion of sales on the streets coming from our men also tipped them off.
So now, it’s just another thing we civilly discuss at these meetings.
“That surprises me, Rozanov,” Dmitry says to my father. “I must admit, when I first heard about the deal, I was surprised you would take such risks. The commute. The interchanging. The sheer volume of it all. Dangerous work you’re doing.”
“You just said it yourself.” My father smiles. “The volume was unheard of until now. And risk reaps reward.”
“I suppose that depends on the amount of risk,” Dmitry says before smiling at his daughter. “I know for me that the safety of my family comes first. And my family is now legally intertwined with yours. Perhaps it would be in the best interest of everyone involved if El Paso was a… shared project.”
“El Paso is our deal,” I say before anyone else can even open their mouths. “Truce or no truce, our business is ours and I don’t intend to change that.”
“Perhaps we can make an arrangement.” Dmitry smirks in my direction. This fat, sweating, balding excuse for a man is pushing the wrong buttons.
“There is no offer extended on our end. Period.”
My declaration makes the entire table uncomfortable, but I mean it. Me marrying Jenica was to settle issues from the past. It doesn’t automatically make the Rozanovs and the Chadovichs business partners.
“Son,” my dad starts in an attempt to keep a good face, but I’m over it.
“I think we’re done here,” I say as I stand up. I extend my hand to Jenica so she knows we are leaving, though she doesn’t seem too happy about it. She downs her champagne quickly and takes my hand with a cracked smile.
And with that, we walk out.
“Would it kill you to be more civil?” Jenica asks me once we are home. She kicks her heels off on the marble tile, not even bothering to pick them up before heading to the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine.
I walk around her shoes that will most likely get put away by the hired help because Jenica is a child. “I think I was plenty civil.”
“If that was you being civil, I’d hate to see you mad.”
“If this conversation continues much further down this path, you’re going to get a front row seat.”
But Jenica just laughs as she pours a brimming glass of wine. “The Rozanovs have always had tempers.”
“And the Chadovichs have always been greedy,” I bite back. “They want what they haven’t worked for and will take it at any cost.”
I’m not just talking about my brother. I’m talking about everything we have had taken from us, mainly from her cousin.
“Can we just have dinner in peace?”
As if on cue, the cook starts setting the table. She remains silent and ignorant as usual—a smart move.
“Gladly,” I say.
Jenica takes a seat at the table that is long enough for twelve people. I sit across from her, all the way on the other side of the room.
I can feel her eyes on me as I unfold my cloth napkin and place it on my lap. I evaluate the pork tenderloin in front of me, cooked to perfection with a side of steamed asparagus and roasted red potatoes.
Jenica cuts into her meat, makes a face, pushes the potatoes around on the plate and then stabs a spear of asparagus and takes a disgusted bite.
“Is the food not to your liking, Mrs. Rozanov?” the cook reluctantly asks.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Though I would rather have salmon than pork…”
“Would you like me to make you something el—”
“I said it’s fine,” she bullets out, and the cook scurries away.
I study Jenica from across the table. “You’re in a pleasant mood this evening.”
It’s the first we’ve spoken since we sat down. Not that the silence hasn’t been nice, but her huffing and puffing is almost more annoying than her bitching.
“I thought we agreed to have dinner in peace,” she says, open-mouth chewing on her asparagus.
My jaw tenses. Jenica has a dual personality. The plastic facade she carries in public is very different from the woman she is at home. Unfortunately, I have to tolerate both.
Before I can say anything in response, she practically slams her fork down on the table. “Would it kill you to treat me like I’m actually your wife?”
“In what way?”
“You don’t compliment me. Ever. Half the time, I feel like you’re not even looking at me.”
“I’m sorry. I was unaware that our arrangement included putting you on a pedestal. Which, to be honest, I already do. You are living like royalty right now.”
“What good are expensive dresses and sexy lingerie if no one is appreciating it?” she cries. “If no one is appreciating me? You are the first man I’ve ever been with that doesn’t—”
I cut her off. “That doesn’t what? Worship you? I don’t know if you noticed, Jenica, but I don’t worship anyone. And even if I lowered myself enough to do so, it wouldn’t start with a mail-order bride.”
I go back to eating.
“You don’t touch me,” she says, her voice softer now. It forces my eyes to drag up to her face. Her expression is hard and guarded. But there is something behind it, something I don’t want to explore.
“That was also not part of the deal.”
“I am your wife,” she says with as much venom as she can muster. “Whether you like it or not. I am your wife.”
“Not by choice.” I take a sip of red wine. “Neither one of us had a choice.”
She swallows and collects herself. Bratva women don’t have the luxury of being soft. When she speaks next, all emotion has already drained from her voice. “How was your trip to Montana?”
“Why?” I ask flatly.
“I’m trying to make conversation. To ask you about work. Or am I not allowed to do that either?”
“It wasn’t a work trip,” I say, wiping my mouth.
She is holding her glass a few inches from her mouth, her eyes wide on me. “But you said—”
“I lied.”
She blinks and takes a sip. “So if it wasn’t a business trip, then what were you—”
“Amara and her family have been living there.”
It takes her a while to remember how to form words. “Amara,” she echoes.
“I went there to get her.”
She sets her glass down. “And what did you need to get her for?” she asks carefully, though it’s very obvious just how pissed she is.
It’s also obvious that I don’t give a flying fuck.
“Because she’s pregnant. And she’s not safe there. So I brought her back with me.”
“She’s in New York,” Jenica asks, though it comes out like a statement.
“That’s what I said.”
“Why would you bring her here?” Her tone is still forcedly calm, but she can’t quite keep the emotion off her face this time. “You do realize how that looks.”
“To keep her safe. To keep my child safe,” I say as I stand up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
I say nothing else and neither does she.
I decide to bypass my office and go straight to my room. It should say something about our marriage that we don’t share a room. Even if this wedding is like a medieval prearrangement, we are lucky that forced consummation is no longer part of the deal.
I close my door and lock it, letting out a deep breath. A part of me, a very small part, feels bad. She didn’t ask for any of this either. But that’s also not my fault or my problem. God knows I have enough problems and I don’t need any more.
I shed my clothes and step into the shower, not even waiting for the water to warm up. I don’t mind the cold. It helps wash away all the angst from the day.
But as the water slowly heats, I find myself thinking of Amara. I still feel guilty leaving her there, even though she has everything she needs.
I doubt she thought she’d be alone again when she agreed to come back to New York with me. And I wasn’t about to tell her. I did what I had to to get her on that plane. But that’s always the case with my life: I do what I have to do.
As the heat flushes over me, calming and easing my nerves and muscles, I think of her. The way she looked when I first saw her. She’s even more beautiful than she was six months ago. Maybe it’s because she’s pregnant with my child. Maybe it’s the thought of my seed growing inside her.
She belongs to me. Now more than ever. And I’m going to do everything I can to protect her and my son. No matter how dangerous that is.
No matter who it hurts.