Page 5 of Heartfelt Pain
Lev and I might hate each other’s guts, but I’ll be damned if I’m the reason his son, Roman ends up dead.
CHAPTER 2
Roma
“Hot fucking damn.” Uncle Dima struts into the garage like he owns the place. His shoulders are back for once so he must be feeling a particular type of way.
Pushing back sweaty hair, I ask, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
It’s late, but my uncle makes a show of checking out the place.
It’s like most garages. Oil-stained concrete floors. One of the bay doors remains wide open. My Barracuda is on jacks and Uncle Dima nods at it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Oil change.” I wipe my hands on a stray rag before throwing into onto a workbench. “What are you doing here?”
He’s yet to meet my eye. He strokes his goatee, the facial hair now peppered with gray. He’s got on his typical tracksuit and wears a green flat cap.
“What’s that?” I ask. There’s a plastic shopping bag in his hand.
The material crinkles as he pulls out a tiny outfit.Proudly, he waves a hand at the matching hoodie and sweats, the velvet material a bright blue. There are little stripes down the edge of the pants adding to its sporty look.
“Huh,” he says, eyes bright. I can’t remember the last time my uncle appeared so jovial.
His shoulders are perpetually rounded, his face naturally sagging. He doesn’t give a fuck about his appearance and shit if I’ve ever seen him eat a fucking vegetable.
Dimitri Zimin is a good uncle. He’s quiet, but always ready to hand out advice to either of his three nephews.
He’s older than Dad but acts like his shadow. Helping the bratva any way he can. The enforcer to Dad’s businessman. While Dad boasts and tells jokes, Dima is more subtle, landing a wry quip every once and a while.
“What is that?” I ask when he continues to proudly show off the baby clothes.
“It’s for Sailor. Look it matches.” He shows off his own sweatsuit. “We’re going to be twins.”
I stare at him. “You’re out of your mind if you think Russ is gonna let Sailor wear that.”
“What do you mean?” He waves a hand down his current outfit. “It’s stylish. It’s easy to move around in, comfortable you know.”
“She’s a kid.”
“So?”
“So are you going to go play chess in the park after this, old man?” I pick up a wrench, fidgeting with the metal.
Dima frowns. “I’m not that old. Why would you say that?”
I point at his outfit. “You dress like you’re an old guy from the nineties.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to accuse me of going to go feed pigeons in the park next?”
“I can’t believe Dad lets you show up to meetings dressed like that.”
From a young age, Dad put us in button-downs. The habit stuck with Elijah and Max. I might prefer T-shirts, but at least I know what a pair of dress shoes are. Dima wears the same outfit seven days a week. He showed up to Max’s wedding in a zip-up hoodie.
Dima scowls, though, it barely takes over his face. Dad’s anger is palpable, changing the atmosphere. Dima’s way too laid back for that.
“You know I expect this from your brothers, but not from you,” he says.
