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It had been more effective than Max’s original argument: that if Roman was killed in New Orleans, there would be no overthrow of Igor or pushing back of Russia. Roman didn’t give two shits about his life except where it meant leaving Ruby in the mess he’d made of hers.
He ignored the whisper in his mind that called him a liar. It was becoming an increasingly familiar voice as he tried to hold on to the vestiges of the man he’d been before Ruby, before his life had stopped looking like a wasteland and had started to hold something like hope in its grasp.
Still, Max was right: New Orleans was unfamiliar territory and Roman would have to get close to Adam to get Olivia. That meant Ruby would be close to Adam too, and Roman wanted to offer her all the protection he could muster.
And then there was the matter of the city’s bratva. As far as he knew, the area was firmly under Baz Rykov’s control, but with Russia in the mix and the history with Lyon Antonov in Chicago, Roman wouldn’t take anything for granted.
“Where are we going?” Ruby asked when they turned away from the city.
Her eyes were smudged with shadows, a product of their lack of sleep and harried rush to pack, but she was as lovely as ever with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. It always made her look young, as if he needed a reminder that she was, in fact, twelve years his junior.
He was aware of her thighs under her dress, close to his on the back seat, and felt a familiar surge of lust. It had surprised him at first — the way he always wanted her — but he was becoming accustomed to it, was starting to believe there would never be a moment when he didn’t want her.
It was revelatory because he’d never experienced it before. He’d had obsessions in the past, but they’d faded quickly once he’d fucked a woman a few times.
“Garden District,” he said.
She’d never been to New Orleans and he watched as her expression turned from tired to excited as she turned back to the window.
He pulled his gaze away from her face, wondering at the irony of a universe that had finally taught him to love with the one woman he couldn’t have.
And he knew he couldn’t have her. Their current domestic bliss aside, nothing had changed. Ruby’s mother had still been killed by someone like him. Even if Ruby could get past her own feelings about his work, his life, she had Olivia to think about, and there was no universe in which she would let a man like him be a part of Olivia’s life.
He fought against a wave of something powerful and consuming. It was strange and unfamiliar, tearing at his chest, and a moment later he realized it was despair, foreign because he’d never cared about something enough to fear losing it.
He packed it away somewhere to examine later. He was with Ruby in New Orleans. They had to talk to Rykov, had to find Olivia. Roman had to deal with Adam, a task made more complicated by the fact that he was a cop.
Roman didn’t have the luxury of lamenting the impending loss of the woman who’d dominated his dreams since the moment she’d flashed her gap-toothed smile at Roasted.
He focused on the city instead. He’d always loved New Orleans, with its dripping trees and stately old homes and delicious food. He didn’t often have occasion to visit, and the reason for their visit made it far from pleasant, but he was happy to be here, happy to be here with Ruby.
New York and his overthrow of his father had occupied his mind for years. The change of scenery was like taking a deep breath after a bad cold, the staid grays of New York shaken off in favor of New Orleans’ color, its gardens wild and blooming in spite of the fact that it was March.
Max navigated the Rover through the residential section of the Garden District, past two- and three-story homes bordered by old iron railings that looked straight out of a Gothic novel.
Finally he pulled off the road and stopped at a verdigris iron gate with a keypad. He typed in the code — Roman had given it to him from Rykov — and the gate swung open with a creak worthy of the old city.
Then they were pulling onto a gravel driveway leading to a two-story house with a pale yellow facade.
“What is this place?” Ruby asked, staring out the window.
“Consider it a rental,” Roman said.
She looked over at him, skepticism written on her face. “Something tells me you’re not exactly the rental type.”
“It’s a loan from a colleague.” Roman wouldn’t call Rykov a friend any more than he would call Lyon Antonov a friend, but they were on the same side, and that mattered in their world.
Especially now.
“Wow,” she said. “It’s gorgeous.”
Roman followed her gaze, taking in the weathered green railings on the porch and a series of terraces that seemed to run almost all the way around the second story. The ironwork was intricate, a match to the gate, and Roman couldn’t help wondering what Baz Rykov was doing with such a house.
He hadn’t asked. He’d simply called to let Rykov know he would be in the city — an announcement made out of both courtesy and wisdom — and to ask for suggestions for a safe place to stay.
He’d expected the offer of a hotel. Like the Syndicate — like all organizations like theirs — the New Orleans bratva was in control of a vast portfolio of real estate. Instead, Rykov had offered Roman the use of the house currently looming to one side of the driveway.
Ruby was out of the car almost before it stopped moving, her previously drawn face animated as she looked up at the old mansion. “I thought we’d be in a hotel.”
