Chapter 38 - Ransome
RANSOME
You are in love with her.
I say the words to myself more than once as we walk inside the restaurant.
My hand is around her waist, a more intimate positioning than usual.
But the paparazzi are pressing hard, as I knew they would be, and I want her close.
If any of these slimy reporters so much as brush a hand on her, they’re going to lose it.
And if I had to guess, bloodshed at a high-end place like this would be bad press.
I tell myself these words not because I am trying to convince myself of them. That would be ridiculous. But because it needs to look that way. Now more than ever, people need to be convinced that I am in love with this woman.
We make our way through Firebay and are ushered towards the elevator.
“It’s really busy,” Amara says. I can tell she’s uncomfortable. She’s leaning into me, or leaning away from everyone else.
“Not for us, it won’t be.”
The elevator closes behind us, cutting us off from the commotion. Even in the quiet seclusion, she stays close.
“Where are we going?”
“The rooftop.”
The door opens. Her mouth opens too—at the patio lit with fairy lights and fire pits and the private bar.
“You rented out the rooftop?” she asks as I lead her out.
I lean down to answer her, my mouth brushing her hair. “I own the rooftop.”
We approach the table where my family is already sitting. Everyone is here, from my parents to Baron and Maverick, and a couple others and their significant others.
“Moy rebenok.” My mom stands to envelop me in a hug.
She is the only woman—the only person—I will give a real, full hug to.
“And this must be Amara.” She smiles over at her.
Most of them have met her, or at least seen her before, but this meeting is different.
This dinner will determine whether or not she will be welcomed by them. Welcomed into our Bratva.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Mrs. Rozanov.” Amara smiles back. She’s so impeccably charming, I could kiss her. But not yet. “And that dress is stunning.”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet? I’ve had this one for ages.”
“It is a nice dress on you, Mom,” I add. “Gucci?”
“Valentino.” She shakes her head, looking over at me. “This boy will never learn his designers, I swear.”
Amara laughs, a light and fluttery noise. Not over the top. Not understated. It’s enough to make my mom smile, truly smile, something I don’t see often. Bratva women aren’t known for being particularly happy. They’ve seen too much.
We all sit down. A waiter brings waters over while another sets down baskets of buttered brown bread and shrimp cocktail.
“Would you like something to drink besides water, Miss?” the first one asks Amara.
I look over at her. Even as we sit around the large table between firepits, my arm is still around her, my hand loosely placed on her hip.
“Vodka martini, please,” she says.
“She has good taste,” Baron says.
I offer her half a smirk and catch my dad’s expression out of my peripheral. Tight smile. Eyes warm from too much liquor and not enough water. He’s looking right through us.
“So, Amara,” Maverick starts in, and I don’t know whether to take a sip of my drink or just chuck it at his face before something he will regret comes out. Honestly, I am a little surprised my dad invited him. But then I realize it was probably my mother. “Tell us the truth.”
“The truth?” she asks. I can hear the waver in her voice and the uncertainty of the rest of the question, but her poker face is perfect.
Amara is used to playing cards. And she also knows how to win.
“What’s it really like working for this guy?” He tips his head in my direction, but his eyes, his grin, are on Amara still. Everyone at the table looks over.
Amara looks up at me, a smile still playing perfectly on her lips. “He’s a good boss,” she says. “He treats me well.”
“Good answer,” my mother says, taking a sip of her drink.
Maverick is still grinning. “I don’t buy it. You can’t tell me it’s easy being his assistant.”
Amara takes a sip of her cocktail and makes a clicking sound with her tongue.
She fucking hates vodka. But no one would ever guess.
Then she looks over at me again. “Oh, I never said it’s easy working for him. I just said we do well together, that’s all.”
Her response earns a smile and even a laugh from several people at the table, though it is brimmed with that salt I warned her about. My dad’s face hasn’t changed, which either tells me he’s not buying it or he’s swaying to her charm too.
I almost think it just might be the latter.
The night carries on. Everyone floats around the rooftop, conversing separately in groups. My mother goes on about her recent trip to Tiffany’s where she just could not resist a pendant necklace despite having so many and Baron and Maverick are talking cars.
Meanwhile, my dad pulls me aside by the bar where I am getting my second drink for the night. I blame it on the caviar being a little saltier for my taste. But really, most of the salt is in his comments.
My dad has never been one to take a hint. Or he just doesn’t give a shit.
“You’re playing with fire, son,” he tells me as we both lean on the bar.
“Isn’t that what we do?” I ask, sucking my teeth as the bourbon burns its way down my esophagus.
He looks down at my drink. “Goose is easier on the stomach.”
“Yeah, well, whiskey has a better burn.” It’s a play on words, but he’s not entertained.
“All I’m saying is, I hope you know what you’re doing,” he goes on. “Turning down a union with the Chadovichs is asking for war.”
“Right. Because what we have going on right now is peace,” I say without looking at him. Not because I’m afraid he might be making some kind of face—I’m just not in the mood.
“A cocky mouth won’t prepare you for that kind of battle, son,” he warns me.
That’s enough for me to drag my eyes over to him. “You think we can’t win?”
“Need I remind you, the Chadovichs, when provoked, play for blood. I’d rather not risk losing someone near and dear to my heart over a reckless game of dick measuring.”
It’s a jab in more ways than one. He thinks I’m just being defiant. He’s also making a sideways comment about Nik. It’s a twisted angle, blaming me for the death of a son that was only a pawn for him.
The thing about my dad is, he knows that the power shift is coming. Like it or not, it’s Bratva tradition for the son of the pakhan to take over when he turns thirty. It doesn’t matter whether the current kingpin is ready to give up the throne.
I can’t say that I give a shit. Things are about to change, whether he likes it or not.
“I don’t think you need to worry about losing anything,” I tell him. “Other than maybe your pride.”
After that, I’m done talking to him. Amara is across the room laughing, and I am following the sound. Soon, I am going to be the Rozanov pakhan, and Amara is going to be my…
Your what? asks a snarky voice at the back of my head, one that sounds suspiciously like her. Your arm candy? Your partner in crime?
Your wife?
I silence that voice and cross the rooftop.
When I find her standing with Baron and Maverick and a couple other men, I am both relieved to be away from my father and annoyed with the way the guys are all looking at her.
One thing Amara has that Jenica does not?
A knack for working the room. And right now, she’s working it a little too well for my taste.
That bubbly laugh that is filling the rooftop patio with a fluttery, intoxicating sound, floating into the night air above us and catching the attention of every man within a fifty-foot radius.
That’s more attention than I care for.
“Hey, Ransome,” Maverick calls me over. “Did you know your little assistant here is a Dodgers fan?”
“Dodgers?” I ask. I like baseball, even though I usually use it as white noise while dealing with all the more pressing aspects of my life. But I am not a Dodgers fan.
“Yep.” She smiles up at me. “Born and raised.”
“A New York girl with loyalty to the team that left us for California.” Baron tsks, too much booze on his tongue and not enough better judgement.
Amara gasps in faux outrage. “I will have you know that when the Dodgers were still playing Ebbets Field, before they were sold in 1957, my great-grandpa used to go to every game. I would be a traitor to him if I gave up my team loyalty all because the MLB cared more about money than good baseball.”
The guys roar at that one, and I’m almost careless enough to smile. Her expert knowledge on the subject is kind of sexy.
But the thing that keeps my mouth slack is that Mav and Baron are eating it up.
I snake an arm around her and take her drink from her, setting it on the bar. Then I pull her away and we head back to the elevator.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“We’re leaving,” I state, punching the doors closed.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I mean why are we leaving? Did we do what we came to do?”
“Oh, you did plenty.” I rake my hand through my hair as the door opens again and guide her back to the car, where Ivan is waiting.
“Okay, let me rephrase that,” she says once we are both inside. Meanwhile, I tell Ivan to take us to the loading dock. “Did I do something wrong? Because I did everything you asked.”
“I told you to stick with me,” I snap.
“And I did. Until you and your dad were talking alone at the bar. Call me presumptuous, but I have learned to stay out of it when you and your dad are in a meeting. Also, where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” As we drive further from city lights and deeper into the black night, I keep my eyes straight forward.
“Right.” She crosses her legs. “Because you can’t tell me anything.
Because you can’t trust me with anything.
No matter what I do, it’s not good enough.
You tell me to be charming and then it’s too much.
You tell me not to be over the top and then you explode at every tiny jab your dad makes.
You know what? I don’t think I’m the problem.
I think even if you were going to marry Jenica, you—”
The car comes to a stop. Amara stops too. Her eyes dart with worry until they narrow in recognition.
“Are we at the—” she trails off.
“Yes. Now come with me.”
Wordlessly, I guide her inside and I flip on the lights. The building bangs with the start of generators as everything comes into sight.
There are three trucks waiting to unload. I walk her over to one and open the back.
She looks inside the empty steel tank.
“It’s an oil truck,” she says, looking around then back at me. “So what?”
I pull the hatch.
Her mouth drops.
Amara lets out an audible gasp that echoes down the empty tank chamber. Below that, it is very much not empty. It’s meticulously full, loaded with no less than one hundred and eighty bricks of cocaine.
“Jesus.” She grabs the railing on the back of the truck to steady herself.
I stand behind her to ensure she doesn’t fall, but also so she doesn’t look away. I want her to see it. The enormity of it, the weight of it, the risk of it.
“Is this all from El Paso?” she asks.
“Yes. It’s the purest, most potent on the streets.”
“This is wild.”
I can tell it’s making her guilty, seeing this. Still, I cage her there, forcing her to take it all in.
“This is what we are dealing with, Amara. This is just one load of hundreds. This is the size of the operation.” I hop down and take her hand, pulling her next to me.
“This is how deep we are. An operation like this doesn’t just equal federal prison if things go awry.
It means death. Not a quick death, either.
A bloody one. Beaten, dismembered, tortured beyond recognition. ”
“Gee, you’re a ray of fucking sunshine today.”
“And not just for those involved,” I ignore her jab and continue, “but for the people who are loved by those involved.” Then I tip her chin up to look at me. “So what I need to know, Amara, is this: can you be trusted?”
“Can I—?”
“Can you be loyal? Can you be faithful? Not just to the Bratva and the Rozanov name, but to me?”
Amara’s eyes flutter as she looks up to the truck around the room and back to me.
And then, like the good girl she is, she nods before answering, “Yes.”
Then, and only then, does Amara earn a smirk from me.