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It all sounded reasonable, but deep down he wondered if this was the end of it. It might have been easier for Ruby to justify their relationship when it was just the two of them. Now Olivia was back, a reminder of Ruby’s old life, her responsibilities.
Roman wouldn’t get in the way of that and so he’d satisfied himself with spending time with them whenever he could, having breakfast with Olivia and helping her sound out words, basking in the glow of a domestic life he’d never had and never thought he’d wanted.
And he stayed away from Ruby’s bedroom even though the sexual tension between them was palpable. It wasn’t just him: he heard it in the intake of her breath when he brushed against her, saw the raw hunger in her eyes when he caught her looking at him.
“Where the fuck is he going?” Max muttered, hanging a left at a light in Williamsburg.
Roman wasn’t entirely surprised to see his brother in Williamsburg, a gentrified part of Brooklyn that had morphed from bodegas and Dominican restaurants to overpriced coffee shops and five-star restaurants.
Erik had always been a needy little joiner.
It was one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the borough now, and they passed BMWs and Audis parked outside of expensive eateries and exclusive clubs as they tailed Erik through town.
“Want to keep going?” Max asked.
“Yes.” Odds were, Erik wasn’t going to see Igor. Williamsburg wasn’t Igor’s style. But Roman was curious, and anything he could learn about his brother would give him an advantage.
Erik was the de facto leader in Igor’s absence but that didn’t mean much. Erik was weak and undisciplined, a pawn on the chessboard of the bratva.
One wrong move and he’d be gone.
Finally, Erik slowed the Bugatti and pulled into a spot against the curb. They were still in Williamsburg, and Roman looked around, guessing his brother’s intended destination was a club across the street,Sapphirespelled out in blue neon over the door, a line of people waiting in the cold to be admitted.
“There,” Roman said.
Max followed his gaze, then pulled into a spot across the street from the Bugatti. “Looks about right.”
Roman watched Erik’s car, could make out the outline of his brother’s face, the shock of his dark hair.
He didn’t get out of the car right away, and Roman watched as Erik fumbled around, then bent his head to the back of his hand.
Goddamnit.
He was using, fucking snorting coke in the car.
Roman should have felt triumphant. If Erik was using, it was only a matter of time before he fell apart. The cycle was as predictable as a finely tuned clock — use, destroy his life, wreak havoc on everyone else’s, go to rehab, commit to sobriety, put on a good show.
Rinse and fucking repeat.
Triumph wasn’t what Roman felt as he watched his brother pinch his nose and check his face in the visor mirror. Erik was his brother, and while it didn’t seem to mean much in the context of their current rivalry, Roman had no desire to see his brother dead in the gutter.
“Fuck,” Roman said.
Max glanced at him. “Sorry.”
They watched as Erik got out of the car and, with a last pinch of his nose, started across the pavement.
It was eerie to observe his brother from afar, like seeing an alternate version of himself: same dark hair, same jawline.
But that was where the resemblance ended. Erik was too skinny, the absence of the natural bulk afforded by their DNA making him look sick. His movements were manic, almost jerky.
All the hallmarks of a junkie.
Sadness enveloped Roman. He sighed without meaning to.
“Should we stay?” Max asked.
Roman shook his head. “No point.” Erik would do a bunch of blow, toss back his weight in alcohol, and probably go home with some girl who would kick him out before sunrise. “But I want someone on him 24/7.”
