Chapter 33 Ransome
RANSOME
Beauty and the Beast, my fucking ass.
I don’t know where she gets off. After everything I do for her, everything I’ve done for her, Amara comes to work and behaves like this?
It’s one thing to mouth off to me, but to act this way in front of my men, who are already pissed off about the arrangement to begin with?
It’s a cannonball at a sinking ship, and I’m not going to stand for it.
After a few passive aggressive comments from my dad about holding the reins and remembering how many eyes are on me, I march off to my office like a bat out of hell. Amara is waiting for me, which is almost shocking considering her recent rebellion.
I slam the door shut.
“Where the hell do you get off?” I boom, my voice rattling the shelves.
“Same fucking question!” she shouts back in my face. If she was anyone else, I would have her by the throat right now. But instead, I clench my fists so hard my fingernails cut into my palms.
“What you just did was beyond inappropriate,” I remind her.
“Well, what you did last night was inappropriate,” she retorts.
I stand in front of her, close enough that my chest is against hers, and bear down over the top of her. “You are a greedy, ungrateful little brat,” I growl in her face.
“And you are a controlling, manipulative jerk!”
With that, I grab her by the chin hard enough that her lips pop open. I press my thumb to her bottom lip, then inch it into her mouth, holding her there in my grasp.
Amara’s back arches. The smallest involuntary whimper creeps from her throat before I yank my hand away.
She nearly falls.
“You need to stay in line,” I warn her.
Amara rubs her chin with a scowl. “And you need to stop treating me like I’m your property.”
“You signed a contract!” I shout.
“So did you!” she shouts back. “And so far, all you do is cherry pick the clauses you want me to stick to, like I’m some kind of puppet. Don’t forget that you need me.”
I almost laugh at that. “I don’t need anyone. Especially not a rebellious assistant. I’m calling the driver. You’re going home.”
“Home?” she asks, following me as I make my way to my desk to eat my lunch. “What about work?”
“The secretary can do your job for today. At least she knows her place.”
Amara’s face is a mix of offended and pissed as she storms out of my office. I’m full of shit. Annette can’t even come close to doing Amara’s job. Hell, she can hardly do her own half the time. But that’s not the point. The point is she’s out of line. She’s forgotten that I am in charge.
And until she remembers, we will both take a hit.
Once she is gone, I have no desire to be here either. Honestly, I can run the place from my phone with closed fucking eyes. Oil and gas may rule the world, but they don’t rule the streets I live on, and that’s where my real problems are.
I clock out early—metaphorically speaking—but I have no desire to go home. I need to hit something. Or better yet, punch something.
And I know exactly what will give me my fix.
Maverick is under the hood of his car when I pull up. He looks over at me with a grin, his teeth white against the backdrop of his dark skin, stained with oil and who knows what else.
My stomach sours on contact. Cars and racing will always remind me of one thing: my brother. And that’s a memory I will repress to the grave.
But the high that comes from being here, at the old track by the bay, is second to none.
I don’t do drugs and never have. Getting drunk is a numbing agent and right now, with the electricity that is surging through my veins, making my skin sweat and my head hot, I need to feel more, not less. I need to feel alive.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Mav grins as he lets down the hood of the car. It’s a 2025 Chevy Corvette E-Ray Coupe, Mav’s newest baby. It costs almost as much as a cookie cutter three-bed-two-bath and he drives it like he stole it this morning.
“I need to clear my head,” I say, reaching in my pocket for a cigarette.
“I think you came to the right place. Nothing clears the brain like a little adrenaline. Well, other than getting your rocks off, but your life is a bit complicated in that area, isn’t it? Or should I say saturated.”
“I came here so I don’t have to think about women,” I tell him with the butt between my teeth as I shield the lighter. I take a drag and let it hit my lungs. Admittedly, I am doing a lot of things today that I gave up a long time ago. But it is what it is.
“Fair enough. So let’s not talk chicks. Let’s go for a ride.”
I have no need for speed. My life is crazy enough to function fine without it. But as Maverick takes me for a loop around the docks, I can feel the adrenaline building in my chest, needing a release. And guessing by the grin on his face when he glances over at me, he knows it.
“You wanna give her a go?” he asks.
I should say no. I should walk away. I shouldn’t give in to childish, dangerous shit like this.
Jesus, Ransome. It’s not drugs. It’s a car. A car built to fly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Maverick lets out a whoop before putting the car in park and getting out.
We switch spots. I tuck myself inside the driver’s seat, adjusting everything the way I like. Then I place one hand on the wheel and one on the shifter.
Immediately, I feel the first hit, smooth and satisfying.
Am I a clown if I admit I missed this? Am I a shitty brother if I say I’ve kept thinking about getting behind the wheel for years?
“He loved it,” Mav says, and it’s like he can read my goddamned mind. It’s like he knows that I am thinking of Nik, wondering if getting behind this wheel is a tribute or a betrayal.
“And it killed him,” I say.
“We both know that’s not what happened.”
“Then what did happen?” I snap.
Mav looks forward casually. He puts his whole heart in everything he does.
But in the same breath, he doesn’t let it near anyone he could be in danger of loving.
“It’s a car, Ransome. Nothing more,” he tells me.
“And a car he would have given his left nut to drive.” Mav gives me a sideways smile and fuck him, I know he’s right.
With that, I shift into drive and we roll.
It’s been a long time since I’ve driven a car like this. A car that can hit 60, 90, 120 without even trying. Even around the corners, she’s smooth. Built for speed. Built to be pushed.
God, it feels fucking good. Cars like this get it. They’re built to be pushed, built to succeed, built to be better than the rest.
And that, I get.
As I weave in and around other cars, taking corners with little to no effort, I can’t help but feel high for the first time in I don’t know how fucking long. There’s a flash of red in my rearview that quickly pulls around me and falls into stride with me.
“Baron?” I ask, and Mav grins. “Don’t tell me he’s got the same fucking car.”
“What can I say? They were buy one get one for free.”
“Corvettes were buy one get one?” I fall into a race with my cousin and his red twin of the car I’m driving.
“Yeah. I bought one and then he got one for free.”
“Well, he’s about to get his ass handed to him.” I charge around him. For another lap we are neck and neck, shifting, cutting each other off, and making a real blood sport of it.
At the end, I push it. There’s a final stretch that ends on the edge of a pier. Below that edge is a hundred feet of cold, North East saltwater. Call it a very expensive game of chicken.
But right now, I don’t care how stupid it is. The shifter is in my hand, the engine is in my palm, and I have no intention of letting my cousin win.
I speed in front of him and he does the same to me seconds later.
We braid our way up the pier and Mav is on fire, unbothered by the fact that this could end with both of us under water.
Nose to nose, the engines screaming, we approach the edge.
Both of us break just in time not to go flying over it…
And just in time not to hit the car parked horizontally at the end.
“Who the fuck—” I say after my seatbelt locks, nearly giving me whiplash as we screech from 110 to a halt. But I know who.
Tristan is standing outside of the parked Lambo. I swear I can see the toothpick between his teeth.
“This motherfucker, I swear to fucking God.” Mav rips his seatbelt off and slams the door open as if that eighth of the car doesn’t cost twenty five grand on its own.
I’m about to tell him to cool it. That fighting with Tristan Chadovich is the last thing we need. But he’s out the door before I can do anything about it.
So I follow.
“Well, look what we have here.” Tristan grins. “You know, I’m not surprised to see these two here,” he nods over at Mav and Baron, who is also out of his car, standing next to me in a line of defense. “But you? I don’t remember the last time I saw you behind a wheel, Rozanov.”
“What do you want?” I grit out.
“What do I want?” Tristan stands up straight, taking a cocky stride towards us. “What a loaded question. Where should I start?”
His brothers Daniil and Yury are with him, standing off to the side, mimicking his smirk and swagger. But really, they’re children who don’t stand a chance if things turn ugly.
“We could start with my fist in your teeth,” Maverick says.
But Tristan only laughs. “You want to fight old school? We’re on the docks, boys!” He turns in a circle, as if to seize the night, and his voice echoes out over the water. Then he turns to face us. “There are no cops out here. No rules. We don’t have to throw punches.”
“Good, because I’ve had a shitty day and I’m not in the mood,” I warn him.
“If we are going to fight, we should fight like men.”
Tristan lifts his shirt, revealing the butt of a pistol in a side holster. He’s trying to scare me. It’s cute, really.
“I will ask again.” I stand right in front of him, my shoulders squared. “But only once. What do you want? Because last I checked, you’re on Rozanov territory.”
Tristan chuckles and looks around. “You own the water now? As far as I’m concerned, this is where your side and my side split. And you’re on the line.”
Tristan pulls the gun and uses the stock to bump me in the chest.
“If anyone here is walking a line, it’s you, motherfucker.” Mav pulls a switchblade from his pocket and holds it out to Tristan’s face.
“Cool it,” I bark out. Because who brings a Kershaw to a gunfight?
“Looks like someone needs to learn to keep them boys in line.” Tristan grins. “But I suppose that’s not easy when you seem to have a hard time understanding your place as it is.”
“My place?” I spit out. I don’t have a weapon, but I don’t need one. I could strangle him in my sleep and toss him in the water without breaking a sweat.
“What do you got against my cousin?” he asks.
Fucking hell. I should have known this was the driving factor.
“Nothing,” I say. “Arranged marriage isn’t really my style.”
“Jenica is out of your league.” He nods up at me.
“So you want Ransome to fuck your cousin?” Mav asks.
He shuts up after that, and not because I put my hand out as a warning. Tristan has the pistol pointed at him as a threat.
“There are rules,” Tristan says.
“Because you’re such a rule follower,” Baron snorts. Meanwhile, Daniil and Yury are standing on either side of him and slightly behind, like a triangle with Tristan at the head.
“You’re making her look bad, rejecting her publicly,” Tristan goes on. “You’re trashing the truce.”
“And you trash the Bratva,” I say back.
“Says the man who has the streets in a chokehold right now. You think we don’t know you’re up to something in El Paso? Our trucks stopped running. The resources have been outsourced, as they put it. A bigger buyer. You know anything about that, Rozanov?”
“I know that the negotiations we choose to make are none of your business.”
He takes another step closer. The gun is tucked back in his belt, but his chest is against mine. “You better watch it. Your brother was mouthy too, and we both know how that ended for him.”
My hand is around Tristan’s throat before he even takes his next breath. But the man just stands there, face turning red, grinning.
“There’s the soft spot,” he chokes out.
“There is no soft spot,” I grow. “Other than your organs. Which will be smeared across the pavement if you say another word about Nik.”
Someone, even with significantly less oxygen, Tristan is able to widen his grin.
“Let up, brother,” Baron says to me. “He’s not worth it.”
My grip stays, long enough that his brothers both pull guns as well. Meanwhile, Mav still has his knife out.
“Ransome.” Baron’s voice comes through the white heat behind my grip. He places a hand on my shoulder and it reels me in, my hand loosening until Tristan is able to break away.
He’s right, though. It isn’t worth it.
We get back in our cars and drive away from Tristan and his guys. As I get out of the Corvette and into my own car, Maverick doesn’t say a word.
I drive in silence back into the city.
I should have never come out here. Any rush of adrenaline to take the edge off has officially done the opposite. Before, I was frustrated and pissed. Now I’m just pissed. It may sound like an improvement, but it really isn’t.
A streetlight turns red and I wait, pulling my phone out. Amara’s location is accessible from my phone. I click on it.
My jaw locks when I see she’s not at the penthouse. She’s not at her apartment either.
She’s at a bar.
My hand tightens on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white.
I should go after her. I should grab her by the hair and drag her back to the penthouse, put her in her place in more ways than one. I should make good on that benefits clause. The number of times I have been disrespected today is motivation enough to do just that.
But I don’t.
I should. I want to. There is nothing I’d rather do than show her just how out of place she’s been recently.
But I’m not going to. At least not in the form of publicly dragging her out of a cocktail lounge.
Instead, I got home. Not to the estate, though.
I go to the penthouse. Then I pour myself two fingers of my strongest bourbon.
And I wait.