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“No,” Max said. “He’s fucking with us.”
“We’ll see,” Roman said as they pulled up outside Ruby’s apartment.
Max watched in the rearview mirror, waiting for Lyon Antonov’s men to pull in behind them to reach for the door.
He and Roman got out of the car at the same time, Max rushing forward to walk at Roman’s back as they headed for the door to Ruby’s lobby.
It wasn’t lost on Roman that while he’d thrown down the gauntlet in the war against his father, one of the most feared bratva bosses in the country, his heart was pounding in his chest because of the conversation he was about to have with the woman upstairs.
He pressed the buzzer for Ruby’s apartment and the door beeped to let him in.
He entered the lobby and climbed the steps with Max at his heels.
He felt like he was on his way to his own execution. Ruby had texted him to come, but her silence in the twenty-four hours prior didn’t bode well. Had she discovered his identity before he had the chance to tell her? Or had she just decided she didn’t want him after all?
Both were possible and both made him feel like someone had taken a jackhammer to his heart.
And it didn’t really matter, because once he told her about his work — his life — it would be over anyway.
They reached the second floor and turned down the hall, but Roman immediately slowed his steps.
Ruby’s door was open a crack.
He glanced at Max and withdrew his weapon, then watched as Max did the same.
Roman approached the door cautiously, knocked twice. “Ruby? It’s me, Roman.”
Nothing.
He glanced at Max, then pushed open the door slowly.
The apartment had been tossed. Pictures had been pulled off the wall, the glass broken in their frames. Deep slashes streaked across the sofa, stuffing emerging from it like foam. Ruby’s plants had been turned over, soil spilling over the floors and Ruby’s collages, which had been cut to ribbons.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Was this Adam Bishop’s work? The work of common thieves?
Where was Ruby?
Max peeled off to search Olivia’s room while Roman headed for Ruby’s, his heart hammering in his chest.
Please, he begged silently. Just that one word.
Please.
He was almost through the door of Ruby’s bedroom when he heard something behind him, a barely there scuffing sound.
He turned toward it, saw Max do the same, and registered the man standing in the doorway.
He wore a balaclava, his face covered except for his eyes and nose.
Roman raised his weapon, saw the masked man do the same, heard the shots ring out in the apartment.
For a split second, he felt triumphant. The man was falling to the ground, hitting it with a dull thud.
But then Roman was falling too, a burning sensation seeping through his chest.
The ground rose up to meet him, and then Max was crouching over him. “Roman! Rome!” He placed his hand on Roman’s chest and when he lifted it a moment later to reach for his phone, Roman saw that Max’s hand was covered in blood. “Fuck!”
A pleasant numbness was spreading through Roman’s body, a buzzing sounding in his head.
He thought maybe he was dying.
It wasn’t the worst place to die. Ruby’s apartment was a mess, but in the haze of his impending unconsciousness he could see it — could feel it — the way it had been during their weekend together.
He could hear Olivia’s chatter as she colored in her coloring book, could feel her weight against his side as she drifted off to sleep. Ruby was in the kitchen, making hot chocolate and laughingly admonishing Olivia, the white lights in the tree by the window casting a soft glow over the room.
He let go of the last vestiges of consciousness and realized something: he was happy.
He was home.
