Page 36 of Beautifully Damned
He plucks the Christmas tree candle out, rolling it between his fingers before setting it back on the cake. “You made this?”
I nod, sure that my face is a hundred different variation of red.
“October twentieth,” he says to himself.
His eyes flick up to mine, something unreadable surfacing for just a second. Then it’s gone. “You made me a birthday cake.”
“I did.”
“I kidnapped you.”
“You did.”
“You’re insane,” he mutters under his breath.
I exhale through a short laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
He’s still watching the cake like it might explode. “Aren’t you going to sing for me?” He says it so dryly, I almost miss it. He reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a lighter, holding it between his fingers, and offers it to me without a word. I light the ugly candles, and somehow, they still burn.
Roman leans back on the stool with his arms crossed. My voice sounds strange—cracked, off-key as I sing. “Happy birthday to you…”
He watches me like I’m singing in a language he doesn't understand. He doesn’t smile or mock, having no idea what the hell to do with what I gave him. And I’m on the same boat.
?Chapter XXIII?
Roman
Ahmet’s voice crackles through the phone, brittle and forced. “We’ll give you a quarter of our weapons,” he says. “The best piles. No damage, no tracking. Clean shit.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling.
“And all the coke and fent we’ve got coming in the next three months. You take it. All of it. We’ll also throw in Istanbul’s east route. ”
Silence stretches. He’s choking on it.
“This is the best we can offer, Roman,” he says finally. I can hear the shame in his voice, the fucking surrender.
Good.
“I’d rather eat glass than touch anything your crew lays their hands on,” I say.
“Roman—”
“No,” I snap. “You want me to take your filth? You want to crawl into my lap and beg for mercy?”
He doesn’t answer. Because that’s exactly what this is. Crawling. Groveling. Bleeding power at my feet. I should seal the deal, I got exactly what I wanted. They are on their knees, offering me what will drain them dry, just to have their little princess back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I say, “I’ll think about it.”
“That ambush wasn’t sanctioned,” he says. “Stupid move. We never wanted war. Kid got assigned a new seat up top and thought he’d swing his dick around. I’ll send him to you. Let you handle it how you want. You want to shoot him in the head? Fine. I won’t ask questions.”
Like I need his permission. I stare at the lighter she left on my desk. It still smells faintly like her fingers. My thumb clicks it open, flame catching.
“We’re compromising now, Roman. That’s what this is. This—” his voice tightens, “—this is the best deal you're gonna get. You turn it down, it all blows up. You know what that means.”
Their threats mean nothing.
