Chapter 11 #2
But he simply pulled out that slightly wobbly red plastic chair and sat down without ceremony.
His long legs cramped slightly under the narrow table, but his whole body radiated incredible relaxation.
He casually unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves twice, then expertly pulled two napkins from the greasy plastic holder in the table's center, handing me one.
"Sit. Unless you want to eat standing up." He looked at me still frozen there and raised an eyebrow.
I sat down stiffly, still staring at him like he was an alien.
The heavyset woman enthusiastically brought over two large plates of grilled conch meat and famous Bahamian smoked chicken, plus two bottles of cold local black beer. No knife and fork—just a few simple wooden skewers.
I picked up a skewer, looking at Roman experimentally. "You sure you don't need me to ask the owner for a pre-meal wet wipe or something?"
"Nadia, are you insulting me or insulting this plate of meat?"
Roman laughed softly. He didn't even use the skewer—just reached out and grabbed a piece of charred chicken on the bone, biting into it without hesitation.
Rough cumin and hot sauce coated his fingers, but he didn't even furrow his brow. He picked up that ice-cold black beer, popped the cap off efficiently with his thumb, white foam spilling over as he tilted his head back for a long drink, thick Adam's apple rolling.
His movements were rough and bold, completely different from the man who elegantly cut steak at the long table.
"Tastes good." He set down the bottle, looked at me, mouth curling. "Better than those pretentious French escargot at Eden."
I was completely stunned.
"How did you..." I swallowed, finally asking the question burning in my mind. "Why do you look so... practiced at this? I thought you were born sitting at the head of a mahogany table, drinking thousand-dollar whiskey."
Roman's chewing paused.
The dim yellow light hit his chiseled profile, sea breeze ruffling his somewhat messy hair. Those dark brown eyes that usually revealed no emotion now looked at me with a smile.
"Born with everything? You might have some romantic misconception about mob childhoods, sweetheart."
He grabbed a napkin, casually wiped his fingers, and leaned back in the plastic chair—it let out a teeth-grinding "creak."
"Before I became head of the Sokolov family, I clawed my way up from Moscow's bottom slums and Chicago's South Side streets. My father was a drunk. Besides teaching me how to break someone's nose with my fists, he left me nothing."
His voice was soft, mixing with the surrounding sound of waves hitting rocks.
"When I was twelve, I got two ribs broken fighting three guys twice my size over half a moldy loaf of bread.
Got held down in mud. Back then, if I could've had a plate of hot grilled meat like this," he glanced at the food on the table and shrugged, "I would've made a deal with the devil for my soul. "
My grip on the skewer tightened.
Something indescribable surged in my chest, like I'd been hit hard—not painful, but creating a fine, dense ache.
I'd always thought Roman Sokolov was some mob aristocrat born with a silver spoon. Pampered from childhood, naturally inheriting the family scepter as an adult, ruling Chicago's underworld with violence and money.
But what he just said—those words combined into a Roman completely foreign to me.
I don't know what kind of look I was giving Roman, but after meeting my eyes for a moment, he suddenly raised an eyebrow and laughed.
"Don't look at me like that, Nadia." He picked up that black beer again, took a long drink, then wiped foam from his mouth corner with his thumb, eyes flashing with wicked amusement.
"I don't need your pity. That's all past tense.
Now nobody dares take what's mine, unless they want to get roasted into a crispy baguette and thrown in the Caribbean to feed sharks, go meet the devil personally. "
I couldn't help rolling my eyes at him.
That tiny bit of sadness and ache in my chest got smashed to pieces by his declaration.
"What an inspiring mob success story full of legal spirit and capitalist glory." I bit into the grilled chicken without mercy, pointing my skewer at him. "But your 'human baguette' sounds so disgusting you should apologize to my appetite."
Roman laughed out loud. He generously clinked his ice-cold beer against my bottle.
Glass collided with a crisp sound.
"Then here's to this damn inspiring story." His eyes rippled with fractured amusement.
"To dinners without white gloves." I lifted my chin, defiantly taking a long drink of beer.
The atmosphere miraculously relaxed.
We sat there at that roadside stand full of smoke and reggae music, wearing bespoke clothes worth enough to buy this entire block, gnawing on meat that cost a few dozen bucks.
Like the most ordinary diners, occasionally bickering over the most perfectly grilled piece of conch meat, or using barbed dark humor to mock each other's taste.
Sea breeze scattered the day's heat, stirring the collar of his linen shirt.
I watched his handsome profile outlined by dim yellow lights, watched him unceremoniously pop open a second beer with cumin-stained fingers, and that indescribable flutter in my heart didn't subside—instead it grew like wild vines, completely entwining me on this noisy summer night.
I'd always thought he was born in the clouds, looking down on people like me struggling at the bottom as disposable playthings.
But now I realized he was like me—a survivor who'd clawed and bitten his way out of the filthiest mud and endless darkness. He'd been trapped deeper, faced a more brutal world, but in his own way, he'd crowned himself king in that man-eating world.
Electric tingles ran up my spine, making my fingertips tremble.
I pinched my palm, lowered my eyes, and saw that flashing emerald on my ring finger.
Things seemed to be gradually spinning out of control.
But I welcomed it.