Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (23 page)

“That's… That's horrible,” I say. I try to piece it together and in my imagination the movie of some old crazed Russian guy coming to Roman, torturing him? Asking him questions about Alek? Not believing what he said? I could see how it would happen… Roman couldn't,
wouldn't
talk his way out of the situation. He would refuse on principle.

But I can’t imagine them apart. Trying to conceive of Alek without Roman or vice versa, it makes no sense to me. They’re joined in my mind, two sides of the same coin.

My eyes find them again, talking in their group. I can see the shiny, pink smear of the scar under his cheekbone. Alek stands next to him, a study in contrasts. I want to go to them, suddenly. Maybe it's the vodka, but I want to tell them… Something. I don't know what yet.

“Yeah,” she continues, sighing, “we always thought it would be Alek who got married first, but I guess not. Roman really is a good catch, Marie. He’s safe, strong. In our business, that kind of protection is something to cherish. You did good. Really good.”

Roman and Alek each glance over to me again, one right after the other and I realize they keep doing that. They’re watching me, keeping tabs. Their bodies are angled so that I’m always in view. And where this kind of supervision used to bother me intensely, now I find it almost comforting.

Knowing that Roman sacrificed his face to protect Alek hurts my heart. But yet, of course he did. It’s their nature. And that sacrifice probably hurts Alek more deeply than Roman.

Maybe it’s the heat or the vodka, but suddenly I’m simmering in affection for them. The way they’re standing there, so serious. The way their eyes flicker toward me protectively, then back toward each other, passing those silent notes between them. Maybe Olga is right. I did good?

ALEK

“I understand why you're asking me, Roman, but I don't know what you want me to tell you,” Gregor says, clasping his hands in front of him. The bright August sky is reflected in his old-man glasses. From the look of him, I don't have any reason to think he's not telling us exactly what he knows, but Roman just can't seem to let it go.

“Then who?”

“I think you already know the answer to this question,” Gregor nods. “If not us, then who? Probably her own people, Roman. That is the most likely.”

“Her father wouldn't do that. He wouldn't even hire associates, only made men. Something else happened.”

Gregor slides his eyes toward Leon. Leon pushes his lips out and shrugs, looking down in a way that says that he agrees but doesn't want to argue.

“I'll ask around again. Maybe someone has heard something new,” Leon concedes.

I nod, nudging Roman with my elbow. That is enough of this. We’re not getting anywhere except making Roman look weak, too attached to his woman. They’ll laugh at him like he’s a lovesick puppy.

“Thank you so much for your time,
Pakhan
,” I say politely. Roman grunts his assent. I guess it's good enough.

Then the men all return to their domino tiles. The meeting is over.

“That was pointless,” Roman growls as we walk away.

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't,” I say. “But you have to admit, we’re running out of possibilities here. Her father is still the most obvious —”

“No.”

Fine. I'm not arguing this with him again.

“At least you’ve got work to do now,” I say, referring to the job that Vlad just gave him. That should take his mind off everything, if only for a couple of hours. Getting back on the saddle, as they say.

“There's always work to be done.”

I can't help rolling my eyes, but as we get back to Marie, I'm not entirely sure I like what I see here. Olga has a plate of food and a big glass of vodka and Marie looks slightly tilted to the side, like a ship that's thinking about capsizing.

“What the fuck,” Roman says as he sees it at the same time.

“Well, maybe she can hold her vodka?”

“Obviously.”

“Roman!” Olga hollers as we get close. She flings herself off the bench and throws her arms out, coming toward us at full steam. I suppress a chuckle as I feel Roman cringing beside me.

“This is an excellent time for a walk!” I say to Marie. She puts her eyes up toward me slowly, already bleary and blinking in the bright sun. Oh geez.

“I don't want to walk,” she mumbles.

“Time for a piggyback ride?”

“Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll walk.”

Roman shoots me a look as I tug Marie to standing with one hand under her elbow. We’re already heading toward the music tent by the time Roman manages to extricate himself from Olga’s hug. But when I glance over my shoulder, he's sitting down next to her. Probably distracted by the plate of food. Come to think of it, I should have gotten some too.

“So? How do you like vodka?”

“Shut up, Alek.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. I love the way she is so damn snarky all the time. Little does she know, any other woman in a five mile radius would probably show a bit more respect. They probably know who I am, but this little doll doesn't even have a clue. I love that.

“Let’s dance,” I suggest.

“No way. I'm not dancing.”

I put my mouth close to her ear. I don't do this very often, because being close to her is actually like torture for me. I want to hold back, I really do, but if Roman doesn't start training her very soon, I'm going to do it. And I'm going to do it my way. And at this point, I'm not sure I can be very nice about it.

“You'll do as I say, Marie,” I whisper just loud enough that she can hear me.

She opens her mouth to respond, but then closes it. It's hot out here, too hot to argue. And she's a little bit drunk, I can tell.

So when I get her to the dance floor, she's just a ragdoll in my hands. I try to hold her at a distance that doesn't look too vulgar to the other people. After all, at least a few of them know that she was just married off to Roman a couple weeks ago, and that's all they know. That's all they'll ever know. Her snappy comment to Aunt Millie that I was gay was actually sort of genius, in a way. We can hold up that act forever if we need to — Roman’s gay brother. What do I care if people have opinions? I want what I want. The three of us, whole and complete.

But what I really want to do now is hold this little doll in my arms. Very tightly.

“Feeling all right?”

“What do you care?” she shoots back, but she drops her forehead against my chest. Poor thing. We should probably drink a lot more, just to get her stamina up.

“Oh,
malitchka
,” I sigh. I drag my nose just along her hairline, inhaling. She smells like sun, and sunblock, and a little bit like sweat. I bet she tastes delicious right now. “Of course I care.”

It's a pop song, like a house music song, so we can bounce up and down without attracting too much attention. There is one of everybody on the dance floor, ages ranging from three to about a hundred seventy. Russians love music. We love to dance.

“Is this… Taylor Swift?” she says suddenly, squinting up at me.

“Yeah, it's the Russian version,” I explain.

“Is that legal?”

“You ask too many questions.”

She scowls prettily. “No, seriously, is it?”

“No idea. But there's a whole radio station of Russian covers right here in Chicago. 99.9, did you notice?”

“No, I didn’t notice. Why would I notice that?”

“Ah, Princess, you have so much to learn.”

As we are turning a slow circle, I hear a sound over my shoulder. Not sure what it is exactly but then what I'm seeing confirms it. Roman and Olga are at the edge of the tent, standing there with a couple more cousins named Taylor and Taylor. Two Taylor's. And Roman is laughing. Head tipped back, throat flushed. He's laughing.

And then I guess I'm laughing too, because Marie pulls her head back and looks at me. Then she looks around the room, confused until she sees Roman and the cousins.

“You really love him, don't you?” she says softly.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I love him. He's my brother.”

I try to shrug it off, but she's looking at me. Really looking at me, and then looking at him.
Really
looking, and I hear her take a deep breath and sigh. She almost sounds happy. Almost.

What the hell did Olga tell her?

ROMAN

It really does feel good to get back to work. I turn the Jeep off in the parking space and look out the front window until I spot the guy that Leon told me about. Clever little rat. Not paying the brigadier what is owed. Not doing what he is obligated to do.

I'm not supposed to kill him, just change his mind. Just show a little influence, remind him who's really boss.

That's what it takes sometimes. People think that there's no oversight, that there's no one paying attention to what they do. They don't know that we always see. There's always somebody paying attention. Even the most free guy in the world has somebody with their nose in his business, sniffing out every secret that he has got. Everybody's got one of those.

This guy, Balki, is supposed to be fencing jewelry. Simple fence operation. Some guys on the North Shore routinely shake out the family jewels, and those are supposed to come down here and get reset, melted down, reshaped, generally turned into something else. And then fenced out. The important pieces might be  sold at public auction. There's enough jewelry that has questionable origins around the Russians and the Jews that mysterious things turn up for auction and there aren't a lot of people wanting to say where they came from. It’s supposed to be an easy operation.

But Balki decided he was going to keep some of the sweet pieces for himself. He didn't think anybody would notice. Like, he seems to think nobody saw the house that he bought in Kenilworth, that giant limestone monstrosity with the swimming pool he can't use. Nobody noticed the hookers he keeps taking to dinner. Yeah, right. We’re all stupid, Balki.

The L train rumbles over my head, shaking the girders and making the street dark for just a moment as Balki twists the pole that opens the green awning in front of his shop. He's about sixty. I'm going to have to be gentle.

But I really don't want to be gentle, not at all. I've got such a backup of frustration in my balls right now that I feel like my nuts are going to explode. Just thinking about all the ways that I can convince Balki to change his mind is giving me a hard on like crazy. He's going to think that I'm here to fuck him.

Balki tightens the awning and heads back inside. I'm out of the Jeep, pressing the key fob to lock it behind me. It chirps at me. I notice I’ve got a bit of a bounce in my step. I'm excited.

But he seems to know right away what I'm there for. When the door jangles open and then closes behind me, I snap the deadbolt and Balki looks at me slowly, like he was expecting me. His face goes gray. He knew this was coming, see. He knew. He had to know.

“Who sent you?” he says, cutting right to the chase.

“Doesn't matter.”

“Okay, I think this is a big misunderstanding. You know, I heard that some people were looking at me… Looking at my stuff… And I gotta tell you right now, everything is totally on board. Okay? So you just tell Leon or Arnie or whoever… I'm doing right by them! I'm doing right by everybody!”

I just start walking into the middle of the room. He's got his hands up already, but I don't need that. There are cameras in the corner so I’m going to take this slow. I wasn't told to do any property damage, so I just pull a can of spray paint out of my back pocket and hold up a finger to tell him to shut the fuck up.

A couple cans of spray paint can really do a world of good if you know how to use them right. In this case, I'm just blacking out the lenses on these cameras. I don't know if they have sound, but if they do he'll have something to remember me by, I guess.

“Come on, Roman… It is Roman, right? I heard you were here. I knew you were here. Come on… I'm good for it, I swear!”

He's already pissed his pants, I can smell it. I’m trying not to be angry that this entire experience could be disappointing. If it goes too fast, it won’t be right. I wish he would just shut up.

“You know Corwin always had it in for me… He
lies…
There's a whole safe in the back. You want to see it? You should see it! Let me show you, Roman. There’s gotta be something in there you would like… Maybe your new wife, huh? You don't even know! Let's make this go away!”

Instantly, I'm enraged that he thinks that he can bribe his way out of this. Sniveling fucking rat. I slam my fist down on top of one of the glass cases and it shatters. Instantly, an alarm begins to howl. Balki’s eyes go wide and his hands go up.

Alarm? A fucking alarm? Why didn’t I think of that?

As I reach for the scruff of his neck to keep him from darting into the back room, the door opens anyway and a guy comes out, just some guy. He is holding a  piece on me, but doesn’t look entirely convinced. The Makarov jerks in his hand as his arms shake. He’s shit himself too, I can smell that. What the fuck, people.