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That was why he fought at Basil’s. It was the only safe place for him to exorcise his rage. He certainly couldn’t do it with his father — not yet — and he shouldn’t have given in to it with the blond prick who’d been hurting Ruby.
Max’s nod was tight. “Want me to do some digging? See if it’s something we should be worried about?”
“Yes.” No need to tell Max that he was more interested in knowing everything about Ruby’s ex-husband than about potential repercussions from the fact that he was a cop and Roman was the son of a Russian crime lord.
They pulled up outside a brick building in Chinatown and Max cut the engine.
“You’re sure about this?” Max asked, eyeing the sign to Uncle Lou’s restaurant.
Roman would have been offended had the question come from anyone else. He wasn’t the pakhan, but he was the pakhan’s son, and a brigadier in his own right. He’d been given no special allowances for his name — he’d worked his way up from foot soldier like everyone else — but he’d also been privy to the inner workings of the bratva, had access to his father’s strategies and business associates.
His finances. Or lack thereof.
He had access to people like Lev Rostov.
“It’s now or never,” Roman said.
His father’s insistence on Roman’s marriage to Valeriya Orlov was proof that he didn’t intend to step down. It wasn’t a strategic marriage designed to strengthen Roman’s eventual standing as pakhan — it was a short-term cash infusion, the Orlovs’ money a kind of dowry.
Roman was being married off as if he was nothing more than a pawn to be traded for a sack of money.
And he wasn’t the only one in jeopardy. The bratva itself was at risk under his father’s rule. Igor’s lack of foresight, lack of vision, had kept the New York bratva mired in the past. They were nearly bankrupt, as evidenced by Igor’s push for Roman and Valeriya to marry.
Igor thought the Orlovs’ money would solve their problems, but Roman knew better. Cash — even a lot of it — was a short-term solution. Without a new strategy to keep the bratva in the black, they would eventually find themselves in need of more money.
And Roman’s younger brother was hardly a candidate for a profitable marriage.
They exited the car and headed for the restaurant’s glass doors.
It was late afternoon, the quiet hours between lunch and dinner on a weekday, and the restaurant’s brick-walled interior was empty except for a couple dining at the front of the place.
Roman spotted Lev at a table in the back, facing the door.
Smart.
Roman wasn’t the only one risking his life at this meeting. If Roman’s father found out Lev was entertaining an offer from Roman, Lev would be dead within twenty-four hours.
Discretion was the key to their survival, and even then, there were no guarantees word wouldn’t get out. Meeting in Chinatown mitigated some of the risk, but you just never knew who you’d run into in New York City.
Roman clocked Lev’s security detail sitting at the next table as if that would hide the fact that he was packing under his leather jacket.
“Want me to stay?” Max asked as they passed under a series of red hanging lanterns.
“Not necessary. This is all for show.” The greatest danger to Roman was not in the meeting at Uncle Lou’s but in the hours, days, and weeks that would follow.
Max peeled off and took a seat across from Lev’s guard.
Lev didn’t stand, and Roman stuffed down his annoyance. He wasn’t yet pakhan. He couldn’t expect to be treated as such.
But someday soon, Lev would stand when Roman entered a room.
They all would.
Roman nodded. “Thank you for coming.”
“You said it would be in my financial interests to do so, although I must say a fat wallet does one little good if one is dead.”
Roman wasn’t surprised his voice was heavily accented. He’d done his homework on the man sitting across from him, knew he spent more time at his seaside house in Repino than in the States.
