Chapter 12
ROMAN
“Do you know why you’re here, Denis?”
I’m against the wall, one hand in my pocket watching Misha, my top enforcer yank Denis by the hair, forcing his head up.
He cries out, his body tensing against the restraints, still refusing to answer. I’m not surprised. He’ll start talking soon. I push off the wall, stopping in front of the chair he’s tied to.
“That’s okay. I don’t mind answering for you. I don’t like games so let’s not play any. I know you bought from the Albanians.”
“I did buy from them,” he admits, eyeing me up and down. “Their product’s good.”
“I’m sure it is. Probably cheaper too. But that’s not what this is about.”
He jerks against the ropes. “If you don’t care about their product why the hell you sent your men to drag me out of my car, tying me up like a fucking pig.” He struggles some more. “Untie me, Ivanov.”
I ignore his request. “How long have you been dealing on my streets?”
“As long as your mother’s been sucking my dick.”
Misha’s fist comes up, but I hold him off, raising a finger. “No.”
Denis grins, like he got away with testing me. I smile back. “I’m glad you can joke. That makes one of us.” I reach behind for my knife, unsheathing the blade. “I can take a joke about my mother. She was a whore. It’s very funny.”
I hold the blade against his throat. “What I can’t take is a joke about people not doing what the fuck they’re told.”
Denis doesn’t move a muscle, he’s serious now, his eyes tracking the blade at his throat. I press hard, not enough to slice his throat, but enough to draw blood. “You’re lucky it’s not information you’re holding back from me.”
I slide the knife back and tuck it away in my pocket. “You and every dealer around here know the rules. You sell here because I allow you. You buy from who I tell you to buy from.”
“Ivanov—”
“Shut up,” Misha snaps, kicking Denis’s leg. He goes silent, the chair creaks as he continues to struggle. “The Albanians aren’t on my list. Permission has not been granted. Meaning, you sidestepped me. Thought you could help those dogs piss on my territory.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Denis rushes out. “I swear. I—I didn’t think it was a big deal,” stammers, his breathing loud and uneven. “Your boss. He’s in with the Albanians now.”
“He is,” I bite out. “I’m not.”
“He’s still the one in charge. Not you. You can’t blame me for going to them.”
“This has nothing to do with blame,” I tell him. “It’s about me fixing your mistake so it never happens again.”
The color drains from his face. “What the fuck does that mean?”
I look over at Misha, already reaching for his Glock. Denis starts to scream the second he sees it. “No–no, wait. Wait. Ivanov, please. I can fix this.”
“What happened to talking about my mother?” I ask, peering at him. “You were brave and funny a minute ago. Why so scared?”
“I’m sorry,” Denis sobs. “Please. Don’t do this.”
“What do you think will happen if I let this slide and let you live?”
“I’ll stop messing with the Albanians,” he cries out. “Only buy from dealers you approve of. I did it for years, Ivanov. I can do it again.”
“Denis,” I say, shaking my head. “If I let you live, every dealer will try to test their limit, see if they can get one over on me. Denis did it and lived, why not them. I let this slide and that’s the beginning of me losing control.”
“Please.” He’s openly crying now. “I’ll even tell you everything I know about the Albanians. I’ll give you names. Contacts. Don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Fuck off,” I snap. “I don’t need information from you.” My eyes drop to his wrist. “Give me the watch.”
Misha tears it off before Denis can finish nodding. “Y–yeah. Take it. It’s a Rolex. Does that mean we’re even?”
“No.”
I pocket it. Rolex or not, I don’t keep shit from people I had to deal with. The river can have it later. Him too.
“Make it clean,” I tell Misha as I turn for the door.
The shot cracks behind me before I make it halfway down the hall. I don’t look back.
Tonight, I take the long way home, changing streets, doubling back and checking my mirrors as always to see if I’m being followed by my father’s men.
When I walk into the apartment, Nala’s at the table with a Russian workbook open in front of her.
One sheet is filled with Cyrillic letters, the other with English notes beside them.
She’s frowning, tapping a pen against her mouth and completely unaware of me.
I pause in the doorway. I can watch her like this, look my fill for these few seconds before I have to rein in this thing, I keep feeling when I’m around her.
She leans closer to the table, a loose curl falling forward as she sounds out the word under her breath. She looks up, suddenly aware of my presence and turns. She drops the pen and smiles, a
genuine one because I can tell she’s actually happy to see me. Nala doesn’t know how to hide what she feels.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
"How's the alphabet going?" I ask, forcing myself to look at the workbook instead of her face.
"It’s okay." She glances at the paper. "I keep getting the letters mixed up. They’re kind of confusing."
"That’s normal,” I reassure her, jokingly adding. “I still get them mixed up.”
She smiles wider. "You don’t.”
“Alright,” I mutter, stepping closer. “Let me see.”
She points to a letter. "Is this right?"
I lean over her shoulder, close enough to notice the faint sweetness in her hair. "The second one’s backwards. The rest are fine.”
"Thanks. I'll fix it."
I should move away.
I don’t.
I have other things to do, but none of them feel as important as watching her learn my language.
She looks up at me. "There’s a word I wanted to ask you about.
I tried to find it in the book but couldn’t.
I can’t pronounce it that well either. I just know it because Madam Belova used to call me that. ”
“Try and say it.”
Chern…chernoma..." She pinches her lips together. “I forgot the rest."
"Chernomazaya.”
I recognize the word immediately. As if my father calling her suka wasn't bad enough, she had to put up with that suka herself, Belova calling her nasty names.
"Yes. That’s it. What does it mean?"
"Black-faced."
“Oh,” she says, her shoulders lowering. “I figured it was something like that.”
Belova’s lucky she’s already dead. I move closer, not touching her. “No one’s ever going to call you that again.”
“I know, because I won’t be around anyone. You said so.”
“I know what I said. I meant, if, for whatever reason, you’re ever around other people, you won’t have to worry about that.”
She tilts her head. “Why not?”
“There’s nothing about you to insult.” I hold her stare. “And an insult to you is an insult to me.”
“Because I belong to you?”
“Yes.”
I turn toward my room before she can ask what that actually means. I wouldn’t have an answer. "Let me know if you need more help."
"I will."
An hour later she knocks on my door. "Roman. I made dinner. Sort of."
I open it to find her standing there with a sheepish smile.
She’s wearing a pink sweater that’s too big for her.
The neckline slips to one side, exposing not just her shoulder but the top of her breast. I can’t tell if she notices this and is fucking with me or she’s truly that naive, giving me this view of her breast, full and almost too big for her small frame.
My cock is hard. I’m in fucking hell, picturing those tits bouncing while I fuck that innocent smile off her face.
“Roman?”
I drag my eyes back to her face. "What do you mean by sort of?"
"I tried to make chicken and rice, but I think I used too much water."
She turns and heads into the kitchen. "It's more like soup now."
I follow her, forcing my thoughts back under control.
She's my asset. I didn't bring her here for this, whatever the hell this is. I’m honestly confused. I haven’t kissed Nala.
Almost, but I was strong enough to resist. I haven’t even done that— the barest of physical contact and I still can’t stop thinking about her and all the things involving her that don’t mesh with my life.
“See?” She lifts the pot lid, steam rising between us. "Definitely soup."
"It's fine.”
"You're just being kind."
"I'm never kind."
"You are to me." Her eyes soften, gazing at me instead of the pot.
The words hit me unexpectedly. She's right. I’m kind only to her, proving once again she’s getting too deep under my skin.
This can’t continue.
Whatever I’m feeling or think I’m feeling, needs an early death. I avoid relationships for one reason; no one gets close enough to be used against me. I don’t allow leverage and I don’t allow myself to care. I never have and I’m not starting now.
"It smells good,” I say, easing back before I get too close. “Should be fine.”
"Okay. But if it's awful, you can’t complain.”
"I won't."
We’re at the table. Nala watches me, her shoulders tense and her eyes wide, like she’s holding her breath waiting for me to take the first bite.
I sink my teeth into it. The meat’s under-seasoned and the rice, watery. Nothing that’ll kill me.
"How is it?"
"It's… edible."
She exhales and I take another bite to prove it.
“I’ll try to cook it better next time.”
“Okay.”
I don’t know how much time passes after that. I don’t care about the food; I can’t focus on it because I keep wanting to look at her.
"You're staring," she says, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"You’re staring too, pchyolka."
She bites her lip, her tongue brushing over the spot. I have to kiss her. Would one kiss really be so bad?
No. I can’t.
She’d probably be terrible at it, no idea what to do. It would be clumsy. Awkward… exactly how I need to kill this feeling and put things back to how they should be.
She breaks eye contact and takes her first bite. “Oh my God. This is terrible.”
"It's not."
"Roman, I can taste it. It's bad."
“Now you know what to do next time. Or what not to do.”
She laughs softly. “That’s true. Definitely more of the ‘not to do’, since I had no idea what I was doing in the first place.”
I bite back a smile. I don’t know what it is about this girl, but I’m letting my guard down too easily and I can’t seem to stop.
After we finish eating, I take Denis’s watch from my pocket and set it on the table. "I need you to read this for me."
"Okay." She reaches for it, and our fingers brush. Neither of us pull back. I glance at her. She’s staring at where our hands touch, her lips parted.
I regain control, pulling my hand away. "Ready?"
"Ready."
She picks up the watch, rubbing her fingers over the metal before curling them around it. Her eyes close and her breathing becomes shallow. A minute passes and then another. Her brows crinkle. Her mouth opens as if she’s in pain or witnessing something she doesn’t want to see.
"Nala?"
She doesn't answer, her grip tightening around the watch. Seconds tick by before her eyes finally open.
"You okay?"
She nods. "Yes. I didn’t realize he was dead when I picked up the watch.”
Was that important? Is that why she looked like she was in pain?
“Does it make a difference,” I ask. “If the person is dead or alive?”
“Sometimes.” She hesitates. “It depends how long they’ve been dead.” She pauses again, this time, pinning me with a knowing look. “How they died.”
She saw me give the order to Misha.
"What did you see?"
"Denis. That was his name. He was with two brothers a few days ago. I’m not sure how many. They’re Albanian, which you already know.”
I nod. Fuck, she’s good.
“The younger one is Arben. He looks a little older than you. Has dark, stringy hair with a really big mole under his eye." She taps a spot above her cheek. "The other one… I can’t tell his age. He’s in his forties, maybe fifties. He has some gray hair, and he wears wire-frame glasses. He’s also thin and taller than his brother.
"Where did they meet?"
“I don’t know the exact place. It’s somewhere near a river. There were blue shipping containers outside. I also saw a factory nearby with tall towers and smoke coming out of them.”
My lips curve into a smile. I know exactly where she means.
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Arben was nervous. He kept checking his phone. Said someone named Luan was supposed to contact them and tell them what to do. That’s all I saw. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I lean in slightly. “That was really good. You told me exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, like she didn’t expect the praise. A shy smile touches her lips before she dips her head and nods, looking back up.
My throat tightens. It’s just a fucking smile. I press a finger to my lips then use her own words to draw her attention. “Can I ask you something?”
She blinks. “Uh… sure.”
"Did you see everything up until Denis died?”
Her brows draw close together. “I saw everything. Why?”
"You saw what I did.”
"Yes."
"It doesn’t bother you? Aren’t you afraid of me?”
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I understand what you are and what you have to do. You don’t hurt people just because you want to.
You only hurt people who deserve it. Or who you think deserves it.
People who steal from you, betray you, threaten what’s yours.
" She lifts her shoulder. “I’m not scared because I’m not like that.
I would never do any of those things. I’d never go against you or betray you. ”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“It’s simple. This is how you are. I don’t mind.”
"Most people don’t see it that way."
"I'm not most people."
No. She's not.
This girl, barely a woman, looks directly at the violence in me and doesn’t flinch. She understands the rules of my world and promises to never break them.
I’m done for.
I’m so far gone for Nala. She doesn’t even realize she’s just given me something more valuable than her gift. Complete loyalty.