Page 87 of Between Us

Roman could feel his blood starting to boil in his veins. “Is that a threat, Rossetti?”

“Take it however you want,” Matteo said. He looked back at Roman, and something about his expression made him frown. “You really care about her?”

Roman stifled a demented laugh, though he wasn’t amused in the least. What he felt for Alessandra had long since surpassed the realm of caring. That fire he carried for her consumed him with its intensity, and he knew with utmost certainty that if anyone ever tried to separate them, he would end them on the spot. In-law or not, nobody got between them.

“She's my wife,” he said simply, keeping his voice level.

“You're a smart man, Roman. You know what will happen if your father crosses us, and it won't be pretty. That being said, I love my sister and I will do everything in my power to make sure she doesn't get caught in the crossfire.”

“Don't worry, Matteo, her safety is something we can both agree on.”

Matteo nodded and started to take his leave. He stopped to knock on the Audi’s passenger-side window and say a few parting words to his sister.

Still trying to process what he’d heard, Roman watched the prick’s departing form as he headed to his own car. His hands balled into fists inside his pockets.

Fucking Vitaly and his fucking plots that could rival a Hollywood movie.

One day, it was all going to bite him in the ass.

Roman just hoped that day didn’t come too soon.

32

Chicago never slept. Having lived in the city his entire life, Roman knew there was always someone wandering even the shadiest streets at ungodly hours. In this case, that someone was him.

Driving slowly, he let his eyes drift from the road ahead to the sidewalk stretching alongside the passenger window. About two hundred feet in the direction he was going, he spotted a group of five men standing in front of a familiar barbershop. When he was close enough, he stopped the car and killed the engine, and a few heads turned in his direction.

Loud rap music cut through the thick smoke hovering above the group like mist.

“Arsen!” someone called as soon as Roman was out of the car.”Rrusn aystegh e.”

The Russian is here.

Considering for how long Vitaly had done business with the Armenians, Roman understood enough of the language to know if he was ever being insulted.

It took about twenty seconds for the door to the barbershop to open and a guy with a short Viking braid on top of his head to step out onto the sidewalk. He grinned when he saw Roman, reaching below his navel to zip up his pants. Behind him, a willowy girl, no more than eighteen, tugged down on her skin-tight dress as she stumbled outside in too-high heels. The Armenians were well-known for their prostitution and human trafficking businesses. It was just one of the reasons their reputation in the organized crime world was so bad.

“Roman, my friend,” the man named Arsen said in a jovial tone, stepping closer. “It's good to see you again.”

Roman had known the guy for many years, although he couldn't say he liked him. He was a notorious junkie with a nasty habit of beating up the unfortunate souls that ended up in his bed. But he was also one of Davit's most ruthless men, and the Armenian boss considered him an asset, so everyone knew he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

When he offered his hand for a handshake, Roman gave him a level look, keeping his hands in his pockets.

Arsen laughed at that, retracting his hand. “I only touched her pussy, not her asshole.”

The men behind him chuckled at the cheap joke.

“You got the money?” Roman cut to the chase. It was after two in the morning, and all he wanted was a hot shower and to lie down beside his wife in his goddamn bed.

“Don't I always?” Arsen turned to a younger-looking man and barked an order in Armenian. The guy scrambled into the darkened barbershop at once.

Roman's phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignoredit, keeping his eyes on the man in front of him. Arsen smiled coldly then pulled out a silver cigarette case. He grabbed a joint, pushing it between thin lips. He lit it up, and before he even exhaled his first cloud of smoke, the young guy was back with a duffle bag. Arsen took the bag and dropped it at his feet. “You got the product?”

Roman turned to his car and opened the trunk, dragging out his own duffle bag. Making such a risky transaction in the middle of the street would have been insanity were it not for the fact that they were standing in the heart of Armenian territory. The neighborhood was so infamous for its violence, no one other than the Armenian clans and their acolytes ever roamed its streets. The closest the cops ever came to the area was about five blocks from their current location.

As expected, Arsen wanted to check the quality of the cocaine being delivered. Taking out a folding knife, he opened the bag and stabbed one of the bricks wrapped in cellophane. He dipped his pinky finger inside and tasted the white powder, making sure to spread it over his gums.

Apparently satisfied, he grinned, the scar stretching from the corner of his mouth to his left ear making him look almost deranged. “Good stuff, my friend.”

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