Page 42 of Between Us

“You're learning something from me, after all,” Vitaly said after a moment, giving a shake of his head. “I will let Davit know she is not to be touched.”

Roman nodded stiffly. He wasn't going to thank him. “Anything else I should know?”

His father reached for the cup of coffee that was in front of him, indulging in the strong java unhurriedly. He was pausing for the dramatic effect, but Roman had no patience for it. Mustering all the indifference he could find in himself, he remained quiet and waited.

“Since we lost two million because of your negligence, you will be present at the meeting. Davit has always liked you. It is important to let him think we don't hold a grudge over past altercations. You beingthere will help with that.”

Roman wanted to argue it wasn't negligence that had led to both attacks, but fought the impulse. It wasn't going to do him any good. “I doubt he likes me very much if he stole from me.”

“No, he stole fromme,” Vitaly said more sharply. “It doesn't really matter why he targeted a shipment you were in charge of. When this is over, he will have wished he never crossed paths with me in this lifetime.”

“When is the meeting?”

“Tomorrow evening. We will meet on neutral ground. There is a restaurant in Humboldt Park called De León. It’s owned by a former cartel member with no current affiliations to any group in Chicago. Be there at 09:00 p.m. sharp.”

“Humboldt Park?” Roman asked with a frown. “That place is usually crawling with Armenians.”

“It's neutral territory, Roman. You have a better idea?”

He didn't, but meeting Davit somewhere public didn't sit well with him. “What if word of the meeting reaches Rossetti? A restaurant is frequented by all kinds of people.”

Vitaly waved off his concerns. “No Italian would ever dare venture that far up north. León Pérez will ensure that we have our privacy. He will be paid handsomely for his trouble, after all.”

???

The last thing Roman wanted to do on a Saturday evening was sit at a table with his father and the head of the Armenian mafia. Aside from the three of them,there were two other people taking part in the meeting: Oleg and Davit's personal hound, Grigor. Tucked away in a secluded corner of the restaurant's second floor, their table was safe from prying ears—there was even an opaque glass partition to shield them from the other customers.

The mood was lighter than Roman had anticipated, with the occasional joke thrown in on both sides. Davit looked relaxed with his suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. He had one arm on the table, thick fingers wrapped around a glass of tequila. Across from him, Vitaly didn't manage to look so casual, although he had also discarded his jacket.

“A meeting between old friends,” Davit had said with his shark-like grin when everyone arrived and hands were shaken. “No need for formalities.”

Roman didn't buy his laid-back attitude. The man had a vicious character and wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet into every single one of them, if the opportunity arose. Everyone at the table knew this wasn't a friendly get-together. It came with the promise of an end-game that would benefit all of them—or so Davit thought.

“Congratulation on the wedding, Roman. I hear she is very beautiful. Haven't had the pleasure of meeting her myself.”

Roman looked at the Armenian boss across the table and tried to gauge the extent of his sincerity, but the man’s expression gave nothing away. Nevertheless, given Davit's feelings of resentment toward Alessandra's father, it was safe to assume the congratulatory remark was deceptively innocent. “Thank you.”

“Of course, had I known Nero Rossetti was willing to part with his only daughter so easily, I might have tried to secure her for myself. If nothing, at least I would have gotten myself a lovely, young wife. But interesting move on your father's part, still.” Turning to look at Vitaly, he continued, “I have always admired the way your mind works. It is one of the reasons our organizations have been allies for decades—mutual appreciation goes a long way.”

Disrespecting Roman one moment and stroking Vitaly's ego with flattering remarks the next—Davit was a fucking snake. Roman knew he shouldn't take the bait, but the way the asshole spoke about Alessandra made him want to fly across the table and pummel his ugly face until he was choking on his own blood. The hand resting on his thigh clenched with barely restrained fury. He had to keep a cool head before he ruined everything with his temper.

Vitaly, sensing his son's agitation, threw him a warning look.

“It's time we discussed business, no?” he asked in a friendly voice, moving his attention back to Davit.

The Armenian produced a thin cigar from a silver box and smiled. “Yes, this is why we have gathered here, after all.” He put the cigar between his lips before lighting it with an engraved DuPont. “The conditions are the same as before—we give you guns, and you supply our strip clubs with your product. Do we agree on that?”

“We do, although I do have some new terms of my own.”

Davit raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. “Oh?”

“The price for the product will be increased by tenpercent. There is still discontent within the Bratva for your... let's call it lack of loyalty toward our friendship. You can understand why my men will expect some sort of incentive to rekindle that bond.”

Davit puffed out a thick cloud of smoke. “Of course. Ten percent is reasonable.”

“And the girl will be kept out of the issues you have with her father. She is a part of my family now, and it is my responsibility to ensure her safety.”

“She is of little interest to me at this point,” Davit told him with no inflection to his tone. “Pardon my candor, but she doesn't seem to be worth very much to her father.”

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