Page 48 of Possession

“He is, was, some kind of mobster—” I cut myself off. So much has been happening that I haven’t had a chance to think through anything. About where I am. About who—what—these people are.

Vitali looks over his shoulder at me. I take in his hard, handsome face that’s so similar to Roman’s but more elegant. Sharper. I take in the ink flowing down his arms and the contrast it makes to the opulent house. I think about the guns and the private doctor coming here in the middle of the night.

“Go on,” Vitali prompts again.

I tell him what I can about Crowley. He interrupts with questions I can’t answer. I don’t know when Crowley acquired Roman. I don’t know anything about where he was before Crowley bought him except that he was fighting there. I can’t tell the story of any but the most recent wounds on Roman’s body.

I start to feel lightheaded as the questioning goes on. Except for reading aloud, which is completely different, I haven’t talked this much in weeks. Months. My whole life.

Vitali questions me about my stepfather. I can’t tell if he believes me that Frank and I had been estranged for years and that I knew nothing about Crowley and his fighting ring before that night.

He wants all the details, so I tell him about when I first saw Roman in the locker room, about the shock collar. I tell him about Frank paying Briggs to drug Roman and getting into more debt when Roman won the fight anyway. I tell him about Crowley having me thrown into Roman’s cell to take care of him.

Vitali, who has kept his back to me up to this point, turns and regards me with narrowed eyes. For a second, I shrink back, then I catch myself. Vitali scares me, but I’m not going to let him make me ashamed if that’s what he’s trying to do. I stare back at him.

Vitali’s expression becomes thoughtful. He ashes his cigar and takes another drag. Blowing out a stream of smoke, he says, “So you’ve been with my brother for a while.”

“Yes, and I want to get back to him, so can I—”

“We’re not done here. I need to know how you got from New York to here, and I need to know everything about the assholes who came down my driveway tonight.”

I do my best. I tell him about the drugged food. I tell him how I woke up handcuffed to a bathroom sink in the hockey stadium. He wants the name of the stadium. At first I think I don’t know it, but then I recall seeing it painted on a wall as Briggs led me from the bathroom to the bleachers.

I tell Vitali how I didn’t see Roman until I was made to sit beside Oscar Crowley and spotted Roman unconscious in the team box. I don’t tell him how I started crying then, how I started begging, how Briggs hit me in the face.

I do tell him, however, that I learned Oscar Crowley was sitting beside his cousin Liam, that they had arranged the fight together. I tell him it was Liam’s men who were chasing us because Roman had killed Oscar.

Vitali snags his phone from the mantle, dials, and starts talking to someone about checking out the stadium, seeing what needs controlled, making sure the cops don’t come this way. He then talks to someone else about Liam Crowley.

“Get me every-fucking-thing on this fucker—now,” Vitali snarls before ending the call and tossing the phone back onto the mantle. He collects his cigar, ashes it in the crystal tray, and focuses on me again.

“What did you mean about Roman not speaking?”

“I … it’s hard for him.”

Vitali scowls. “What do you mean it’s hard for him? His throat’s fucked up? He’s obviously been beaten half to—” Vitali cuts himself off and looks away, furious. His jaw bunches. Then his gaze swings back to me. “Tell meeverything,” he demands.

I don’t like his insistence. I don’t like his intrusion. Roman is mine.

I tell Vitali, “It’s none of your business.”

His expression is instantly furious. “None of my business? None of mybusiness?” He starts stalking my way. “I thought my brother wasdead. He has been gone forfour fucking years. I am going to killevery fucking personwho hadany-fucking-thingto do with it. And if I find out that you’re hiding the fact that you are one of those people? I will rip you the fuck apart.”

SEVENTEEN

Roman

When I first wake up, I have no idea where the hell I am. In a bed. In a room. A big room. Even with the moonlight flooding in through the sliding glass doors, I don’t recognize it at first. Then, when I do, I feel weirdly disconnected from it. This room, my room, is not part of my reality. I feel like I’m in a dream. I feel, too, like something is very wrong. Like something is missing.

I sit up abruptly. Where the fuck is Lucas?

I throw the covers aside and get out of the bed. I’m naked, but that’s not a fact that deeply registers. I’m often naked.

There’s a man sleeping on the couch. I stalk over to him.

He yelps when I grab him and haul him up by his shirt. I growl in his face, “Lucas.”

“You mean—”

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