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He was nervous as he got dressed, which was utterly absurd. He was a grown man, had been on countless dates with women over the years.
And this wasn’t a date.
He wasn’t fool enough to think Ruby’s willingness to go to dinner with him meant that he was being allowed back in her life. She simply needed a distraction, and he owed her one.
He studied his reflection in the mirror: his suit expensive and perfectly tailored but not too formal without a tie. He’d showered while he waited for Ruby’s dress to arrive — Max had called a stylist friend to have something sent over — then combed his hair and applied cologne.
New to his room, Ruby was getting ready too. He’d heard the shower running, then the sound of the blow dryer, and had tried not to picture her wet and naked.
His cock hardened and he took a deep breath. Thinking about Ruby always made him hard, and since he did little else but think of Ruby, he’d been walking around with a stiff cock for the better part of the month she’d been living in the loft.
His phone buzzed with an incoming call and he glanced at it, then picked it up when he saw the name on the screen.
“Hello.”
“You’re all set,” Damian Cavallo said.
Damian was the head of the New York Syndicate, the Italian Mafia. Once upon a time, their organizations had been enemies, but Roman had begun seeing his way to a more synergistic relationship.
“Thank you,” Roman said. “I owe you.”
Damian chuckled. “You and Lyon both.”
Lyonya Antonov had forged his own alliance with Damian and the Syndicate when he’d taken control of the Chicago bratva. It had been a shit show and Lyon had needed all the help he could get. Roman heard a rumor Lyon had even met with the notoriously mysterious Nico Vitale, head of the Syndicate, although Nico was now based out of Rome, where he lived with his wife Angel.
“We’re good for it,” Roman said.
“I’m not worried,” Damian said. “I know where you live.”
“Thanks again.”
“Happy to help. We’re not friends, but if there has to be someone on the other side of the fence, we’d rather it be you,” Damian said.
“I appreciate it.” Roman read between the lines: the Syndicate didn’t love sharing territory with the bratva, but since the arrangement was a necessary evil, the Syndicate was pulling for Roman over Igor.
It wasn’t a surprise. The Syndicate’s business model had been remade under Nico and the other men at its helm. They’d moved beyond the crude thuggery of early organized crime, expanding into more modern revenue streams: corporate espionage, digital money laundering, credit card schemes that stole from corporations instead of the common man.
They had no use for a business alliance with a man like Igor who still saw human trafficking as a viable income stream.
“Let us know if you need anything else,” Damian said.
“Will do.” It was a card Roman would try not to play. Any help from the Syndicate would come with strings attached — now or later.
He hung up and headed for the hall, pushing aside thoughts of business. He may never get a chance to take Ruby to dinner again. He wanted to enjoy it, to forget about his father and the war over the bratva.
He just wanted to sit across from her. Wanted to see her smile and hear her voice and talk about something normal.
The living room was empty and he walked to the bar and was pouring himself a double shot of tequila when his phone buzzed with an incoming text from Max.
Word on the street is Vladimir Orlov is dead. Heart attack.
Roman drew in a breath. So it was done.
Interesting, Roman texted back.He was an old man.
Best to play dumb at all times. Just in case.
He thought about Valeriya, wondered how she was feeling. He would reach out — in a professional capacity of course — and express his condolences.
