Page 74 of Destined for the Devil
"Why do you think he had something to do with it?" I asked, though I was already trying to piece it together myself from the little details I knew.
"Isla…” he said her name like a prayer. "She said that when he threatened her...he said he will find her alone...just like his other one." Roman was slightly shaking at his own words. "I never had any other one. The only other woman in my life who was with me was Natasha. And she was alone when she was...when she was killed. I was out of the country."
He fell silent, eyes drifting down to the untouched plate in front of him. Neither one of us had any appetite anymore.
I had to think it over. I had a ton of my own shit to deal with; I didn't want to make any promises I couldn't keep.
"When are you going back to L.A.?" I asked him, but he just lightly shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
Great start. A real focused plan. He had to pull himself together.
"Where is she staying?" I pressed for more details.
"Currently, with a friend."
I leaned back in my chair, thinking over his words. "Stay here for a few weeks. Try to repair whatever happened, and in the meantime, we can figure out her circumstances. I’ll see what I can do.” Roman nodded like a bobblehead, disconnected. “What’d you do, cheat on her?” I eyed his disheveled state. “Although...it definitely doesn't look like it." I concluded just as he shook his head, vehemently denying the proposition.
"No. No. I would never cheat on her. I can't even stand to look at any other women."
Roman? Can't stand to look at women? Roman was the biggest womanizer I knew. Way worse than me in the past. I didn't think I'dever seen him with the same woman more than once; at least I kept them around for a few weeks here and there.
"No. It's something...something terrible." He took a deep breath in, clearly having a hell of a time with it all. "Dave Barrington. The owner of Anders C & C? Remember I told you my plans for them a few years ago?” I nodded slowly, trying to place where he was going with this. “Turns out...he was her father.”
I blinked, processing what he’d just said. “What?”
“I didn't know. I only clued in two nights ago."
"Pffft, thefuck, Roma?! How did you fucking let this happen?" I was dumbfounded by this news. "Fuck, man. You have the worst luck in the world! You love her?!" I wanted to double-check because this was some fucked-up, twisted nightmare fuel.
"Yes. Yes, I love her.” He nodded vigorously. “And she loves me, but she says she hates me now. And hopes I burn in hell."
I bet she does, falling in love with your parents' killer? That's psychological trauma right there.
"Let’s figure out how to fix this.” I shifted into resolution mode. “Show her the dirt on him, but fuck...it’ll take time to put together and find all the dead ends. Get her to see who he really was. He wasn’t some saint; he was just like us. If you didn't take him out, he would have done that to you."
Oh, man, I felt bad for him. There was no coming back from this revelation.
Roman nodded again, defeated. "And stop drinking. You need to collect yourself. Don't repeat the same mistake as last time and let too much time go by. This time is crucial right now." His gaze shot up into mine, knowing exactly what I was referring to.
After Natasha died, he spiraled into the abyss—he completely fucking lost it. He stayed in bed, the bottle at his side—for months.I was prettysure he was trying to drink himself to death.
Slowly, he pushed away the half-empty glass of vodka. "You're right," he said, uncertain but honest. "I can't let this happen again. I fucked up last time. I let it slip out of my hands, and five years later, I still don't know who was fucking responsible." Again, he was on the verge of tears. "I won't let anything slip out of my hands this time. I won't let her go."
We both fell silent, the weight of his words hanging between us. I was surprised at his reaction to my words. He didn’t try to defend himself, just admitted his fuckup and agreed with me. At the same time, he was so broken he would have agreed to anything I said.
But he followed through. He stayed in New York just like I told him to. He changed hotels, stopped drinking all day, and used my office to work. He was quiet, angry, and clearly still lost, but I knew he would figure it out.
Isla was outfitted with twenty-four-hour security monitoring her every move while we kept very strict and thorough vigilance over Sergei. I fucking hated that guy. Fine, we were all involved in dark and awful shit. We killed, we robbed, we deceived, but we weren’t the dirty fucks who tortured and played with their prey for fun, but Sergei was.
Thankfully, he left L.A. for the south of France, and the distance gave us some peace of mind that he wouldn't try to pull anything while away. There too, we kept an eye on him.
His wife and kids were in Russia for their summer holidays, but instead of joining them, Sergei decided to treat himself to a bit of debauchery on the French Riviera. Denis tagged along with him for the first few days, and the reports I was getting from my guys watching him were disappointing at the very least but mostly just fucking gross.
Loud parties, orgies, gang bangs, so much fucking coke, Pablo Escobar would’ve been jealous. Cops showing up to his villa every night—this was exactly the kind of behavior that made everyone think rich Russianswere fucking pigs. I guess that wasn’t totally wrong. He was a rich Russian, and he was downright fucking atrocious, amplifying every damn negative stereotype.
He wasn’t just spending money—he was pillaging it, burning through life.
