Chapter 3
RANSOME
“We gotta talk, brother.”
I grit my teeth hard enough to crack at my cousin Baron’s words. There are exactly two things I hate in this world more than anything: my schedule being fucked with and vague, elusive reasons for the interruption.
“Whatever it is, I don’t have time to deal with it right now,” I growl into the phone.
I am on my lunch break. A lunch I am enjoying alone, in my office, with the door closed. Or at least, I was enjoying it before Baron called me.
Baron understands my job. He knows I am the CEO of Apex Energy, the biggest oil and gas company between here and Saudi Arabia.
But he also knows my other identity. The man I am when I clock out. The man I can’t ever escape, simply because I am the only surviving Rozanov son.
Baron sighs. “Well, you can deal with it now or deal with it at five o’clock today. Your choice. I was just trying to give you a heads up before your phone explodes.”
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Your dad wants to have dinner.”
I slam my fist down on the desk, nearly scattering my lunch everywhere as I do. That would be unfortunate. My assistant made a point of ordering me pelmeni today from the only truly authentic Russian place in Midtown Manhattan, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.
“Why? What the fuck could he possibly need now?”
“He hasn’t said. All I know is he called a meeting with the whole family, so obviously, you have to be there.”
“‘Have to’ feels like a strong phrase, brother. I’m the son of the pakhan. I don’t ‘have to’ do anything.”
“You’re also the next pakhan, so I think that means you do. Come on, Ransome—you know how the Bratva works. I don’t make the rules; I’m just the messenger.”
“Remind me again why people shouldn’t kill the messenger?” I take a bite of my food. It’s cold now, which irritates me even more.
“Because at the end of the day, I’m one of the only people that has your back and you know that.”
I know he’s right. But I’m not going to say it. Instead, I agree to meet at Rare Chophouse at five o’clock and hang up.
It’s not that I can’t handle the schedule change. But it pisses me off nonetheless. Juggling these two masks is already almost fucking impossible, and I don’t appreciate people making it harder than it has to be.
What Baron said is true: Behind the scenes, I live another life. A dark, second life that exists in the underbelly of New York City. It’s a world that many people suspect to be real but no one gets involved with because they’d be stupid to do so.
They aren’t built for it, like me.
They weren’t bred for it, like me.
They weren’t born into it with no choice but to embrace it, to own it, to fucking breathe it into their lungs and their veins and let that darkness become a part of them.
Not like me.
The Rozanov family is one of two Bratva families running the underbelly of NYC. On the other side of the tracks lives the Chadovich family. And much like the Montagues and the Capulets, we are anything but friendly.
Civil, perhaps, but only because the NYPD prefers it that way. The problem with there being two families is that means two of everything.
Two ideas about how things should be run. Two territories with often blurred, frequently bloodied lines. Two pakhans who run the operations. And two sons (one from each family) who will in six months each be taking over the respective crowns.
A shift of power means a lot of shit gets unsettled. Concerns get raised; heads get butted.
Unfortunately for me, it also means a lot of mid-week steakhouse dinners where my father blathers on and on about legacy and power.
A lot of bullshit, in other words.
But Baron was right about something else: I don’t have a choice in this one. Like it or not, this is how things are done in my world.
The rest of the workday goes on as usual. A million different demands pull me in a thousand different directions. It’s nothing that I can’t handle, but my fuse is short and those around me know to steer well fucking clear of me.
I have a closet in my office at Apex that’s nearly the size of the office itself. The only way in is through a black door in the corner that I keep locked at all times. The only other person with a key is my assistant, Amara.
That’s a first for me, letting an assistant touch the cards I hold closest to my chest. But something about her is… different.
I knew it the moment her interview started. She was early—not early enough to look desperate, but early enough to be prepared and then some. She was dressed the part. Apex is all about appearances and no Made In China dress from the department store at the mall was ever going to cut it.
She listened well, learned fast, and was able to predict my needs. That was also a first.
Most importantly, she learned quickly to stay the fuck out of my way.
The clock counts down and I step into my closet to change for dinner. It’s past business hours, so most of my employees have probably already clocked out. I slip into a pair of black slacks and pad around to the other side of the closet barefoot to find a shirt.
Black? No, not tonight.
White? Too passive for the attitude I’m bringing to this dinner.
Blue? I need more edge than that.
But red… dark red, crimson, almost a red like blood…
Yeah, that’ll fucking work.
I pluck the shirt from the middle of the lineup. But just as I turn in the direction of the door that I left cracked open, I hear a gasp.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rozanov!”
Amara is standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, her lips parted in the smallest O and her feet seemingly glued to the ground. Most people would turn away, walk out, probably quit their job on the spot.
But Amara just stares.
“I came to get your dry cleaning and… oh, God. I’m sorry. I should have knocked.”
“It’s over there.” I nod to one of the side hooks with my chin while slipping my arms into the shirt, leaving it unbuttoned for now.
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
She looks like she’s walking a pirate’s plank as she inches into the closet with me. It’s big in here, but the space seems to vanish. It’s suddenly personal. No room to move, to breathe. Just the two of us almost touching.
I’m not the only one who feels that way. I can tell by the jagged rising and falling of her chest as she hurries to grab the bagged suits from the corner that she feels the exact same.
That and, while I bend to slide into a new pair of loafers, her eyes keep flickering to my still-exposed torso.
She clears her throat. “So I’ll just… take this to the cleaners and pick up your other suits and take them to the penthouse.”
“Perfect,” I answer while buttoning up my shirt and latching my belt. I grab a slim, black tie and start to loop it around my collar.
“And I’ll make sure it’s locked when I leave,” she adds.
“I will lock up when you’re done. I control it.”
She stops and blinks. “Control it?”
“The lock. From my phone.”
“Oh, yes. Right.” She smiles briefly before growing serious again. She looks down, her cheeks tinted with rose, and starts to walk out. Then she stops and turns to me.
“Do you need something else?” I ask when she stands there and says nothing.
“It’s just… You have…” she stutters but doesn’t finish her sentence.
I frown. “Miss Parker, I don’t have all day.”
Amara rests the suits on the center table in the middle of the closet and ventures over to me. Close to me. Very fucking close.
Then she reaches up toward my face, her hand hovering at the collar of my shirt.
“There’s a… spot,” she says, touching the collar. Her fingertip grazes my neck with less weight than a feather but I still feel it. “It looks like… blood, maybe. It’s hard to see because of the color of your shirt, but—”
I cut her off by yanking off the tie and stripping out of the stained shirt, casting it aside, and reaching for another.
She leaps backward. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammers. “I should have noticed when I picked it up from the dry cleaner before. I can make a complaint if you want. Or switch cleaners. Or—”
“It’s not your fault. I cut myself shaving.”
That’s a lie. I’ve never cut myself shaving. I know how to wield a weapon, especially one close to my throat. The blood, of course, is not mine.
“Just take it with you,” I add gruffly. “Make sure they get it out this time.”
“Of course, Mr. Rozanov. Anything else?” Amara swallows hard as I yank another shirt on.
“041914.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The code. For the penthouse. 04—”
“Oh! Of course! 041914. Got it.”
Amara takes the two suits plus the stained shirt with her and hurries out of the office.
Even after she is gone, my nerves are sizzling.
Not just from anger, though I am pissed.
I should be heading home for the day. Grabbing a stiff drink and turning my brain off for all of five seconds before switching hats for the night.
I should be eating a steak from anywhere but the fucking Chophouse and ignoring everyone with a pulse, especially my fucking father.
But instead I am headed to another “family dinner” where more problems will be dropped in my lap for me to deal with.
Hopefully, this time, there’s less mess to clean up.
And no more blood to rinse out of my collars.