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“I’ll speak when I see fit.” Roman bit out the words. “I agreed to come. I didn’t agree to let you sign my life away without comment.”
He flinched when his father laid a hand on his shoulder — old habits died hard — and was surprised to feel the gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“This is not ideal,” he said. “I understand. You’re doing a service to the bratva. It won’t go unrewarded.”
Roman hated the warmth that crept in before he remembered that he shouldn’t be in a position to be rewarded by his father. He should be running the brava, and everyone knew it.
This was his father’s narcissistic suite of control: punish, soothe, reward.
For many years — too many — it had succeeded in keeping Roman tied to him, just loyal enough not to seize control.
Just loyal enough not to hold a pillow over his face while he slept.
Roman nodded, swallowing the words that rose in his throat.
The bratva wouldn’t need thisserviceif you’d managed it more competently, if you’d joined the twenty-first century instead of remaining mired in the practices of the past, if you hadn’t bankrupted the organization by refusing to move into the future.
He thought of the Chicago bratva, leaping ahead at light speed now that it was under Lyon Antonov’s control. Roman wasn’t privy to the exact numbers, but he knew enough about the business that, by his estimates, Chicago had increased revenue by at least four hundred percent in the two months since Lyon had eliminated his enemies and stepped fully into his role as pakhan.
The elevator came to a smooth stop at the third floor and the doors opened to reveal another suited guard.
“Good afternoon.” His thickly accented voice was no surprise. Oligarchs like Viktor were increasingly distrustful of Americans. Their staff was brought in from Russia, and no one on the staff was as important as security. “Follow me.”
They exited the elevator onto a wide landing. One wall was lined with gold Baroque wallpaper, a traditional foil to the modern art and the suspended staircase in polished wood that led to both the upper and lower floors.
They passed by the staircase and crossed the travertine floor, then took one step down into a sunken nook set against an alcove of glass that overlooked the city. Beyond the wall of windows, cars seemed to move peacefully through the city, the pedestrians seeming to saunter when Roman knew most of them were probably in a hurry.
From up here, the world was meandering and golden, its chaos and filth filtered through soundproof walls and tinted glass.
They hooked a right and emerged into a formal sitting room, silk draperies lining the arched windows, shielded by trees on the other side of the glass, the ultimate luxury in a city of concrete and steel.
Viktor — the arrogant fuck — didn’t bother standing when they entered the room. It was a sign of disrespect Roman wouldn’t have tolerated had he been pakhan, and he looked forward to the day when he could tell the old man to go fuck himself and have the power to back up the insult.
But Roman’s father didn’t have that luxury, and he smiled and nodded his greeting, shaking the old man’s hand while Viktor, his bald head shining in the sunlight flooding the room, sat in one of the dove-gray chairs across from a matching sofa.
When they were finished with their greetings, Roman’s father turned to him. “Viktor, my son, Roman.”
Few people in the modern world understood the subtlety of such etiquette, but Roman did. By introducing Roman to Viktor instead of the other way around, Igor was making it clear that Viktor was the VIP in the room.
Roman nodded. “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
You obscene, overinflated waste of space.
Viktor didn’t bother returning the sentiment. He simply looked Roman over as if Roman were a cow at auction.
“And you know Konstantin Rykov,” Roman’s father added when it became clear Viktor didn’t intend to acknowledge Roman’s presence in any meaningful way.
Again, the imperious nod. Roman fought against the urge to pummel the man’s face, just to see if he would make noise.
They were saved from what might have been an excruciatingly awkward silence by the arrival of Valeriya Orlov, who sashayed into the room like a biting wind on an already frigid day.
“My god Father, did you not invite them to sit?” Her voice was laced with laughter, as if she found her father’s rudeness funny instead of embarrassing, as if Viktor were just having a little fun with the peasants.
“Sit,” he said blandly. “Of course, sit.”
“Hello, dear Valeriya,” Roman’s father said, clasping her hands in his. “As beautiful as ever, I see.”
She smiled. “And you are as suave as ever,” she said. “I’ll bet the ladies still love you.”
