Page 73 of Destined for the Devil
"Zdravstvui, Kirill. I need help."
35
The Tsar
Kirill
RomanandIwentway back. I’d met him in Moscow about fifteen years ago, when we were both barely twenty and he was establishing himself on this side of the globe, just like I was doing back home.
We had a lot in common, age being one of them. And even though we grew up in vastly different circumstances, we had similar painful childhoods.
Roman was smart and hardworking; he stayed loyal, and we hit it off. His influence grew, and so did mine, and I knew he was the one to watch and keep close.
Every time he’d visit the Motherland, I always made time for him. We partied, we did coke, we fucked girls together, we went to the sauna, and as we got older, we became partners in a few businesses. We became long-distance friends.
Ruthless and calculating, he decimated his competition and was the mastermind behind the booming business. His leadership was sharp, and his men were loyal and disciplined.
Except one.
I had long-standing, deeply rooted suspicions about the one man he trusted most—his childhood friend and closest partner: Sergei.
My contacts in the Russian Armed Forces confirmed my suspicions—Sergei was rottento the core.His appetite for the dirtiest and most depraved behavior lost him all respect in Russia, amongst my men,at the very least.
Nevertheless, Roman trusted him, and their business kept growing even though it was obvious that Roman was the one carrying the weight. As for Denis, he was harmless and a bit of an idiot.
I met with Roman a day or two after his arrival in New York, and I was shocked—shocked—to see him in such a state. Shocked was an understatement! I did my best not to show it, but I couldn’t look away from his mangled appearance. Even when Natasha tragically lost her life,even then,he looked more composed, and that was saying a lot.
He sported a deep cut on his cheekbone and a broken nose, the bruises around his eyes in full bloom. But worse than the physical damage was the look in his eyes. He was in emotional agony. Something awful must have happened.
We sat down at our usual table for lunch, and he ordered a glass of vodka. Not a shot—a glass.We could all drink, but no one drank straight-up vodka in the middle of the day. So, he was trying to forget something.
"Who fucked you up like this?" I launched right into it.
One thing I’d noticed about communicating with North Americans was that they all wanted to do small chit-chat before getting down to business. We didn't do that in Russia. First, you take care of business, and then you do small talk about the weather and shit.
Distraught, he stared down at the table before giving me a quiet, dejected answer. “Devchonka."
A girl.
Fuck. Were we really doing this? We were both in our mid-thirties, way past the age of letting a woman break us apart like that. Although, I had my own angel I was pursuing. One I hadn’t yet found the courage to approach. One I’d thought about every damn minute for the last decade, counting down the days until it was time.
So maybe we were doing this. Maybe I understood him more than I wanted to admit.
He finally looked up at me with those puppy dog eyes, head over heels in love, desperate and heartbroken. He was completely gone. I didn’t press him and gave him a minute to collect himself. His voice strained and holding back literal tears, he gave me the succinct version of the story.
"She left me.” He forced the words out. “She's back here in New York, and...she's in danger. Because of me, obviously." Then he looked up at me, the severity of his next words spelled out in his eyes. "Sergei threatened her. He has his eye on her...and I believe he..." Roman broke off and knocked back a heavy gulp of vodka. "I think he betrayed me. I can't prove it yet, but he may have been involved in Natasha's death."
Wow, what a fucking light lunch. So, Sergei had been a fucking snake all this time. I fuckingknewit. If what Roman suspected was true, Sergei wasn’t only dangerous for Roman; he was a threat to all of us.
"Start from the beginning." I encouraged him and asked a few open-ended questions.
Rodriguez set him on the right path; finally, someone in his circle had the balls to fucking bring it up. It seemed that all the events of the past few months were somehow linked to each other. This girl came into his life by pure chance, but only because of his revenge on Natasha's killer. Had there been no killer, there would be no Isla. Had there been no Sergei, there would—potentially—be no killer.
Life played cruel jokes on us.
"I need your promise. That you’ll look after her here...while I deal with Sergei and try to get her back." Roman laid out his request. "I can't take him out without cause, and I can't figure out how to get him to confess to her death."
God, he looked so beaten up by life. A shadow of the man he usually was.
