the same.” Roman pushed the bodice-ripper over to me. “Alright, so teach me, oh great one.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’ll start with Anton’s books.”
He huffed but didn’t argue.
It wasn’t until I forced him to write out words on a piece of paper, only simple ones: walk, talk, hello, goodbye, that he threw his pen and snapped. “Don’t you want to know why I can’t read?”
“I don’t really care.” Not true, I was actually quite curious. But a conversation with Danika could clear that all up. I didn’t need to pester Roman for it.
Roman scanned my expression, searching for some sliver of mistruth. When he didn’t find it, he remarked, “You really don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”
“Who would I care about?” The question sounded less sad in my head. Out loud, it almost sounded like a plea hidden beneath a barbed retort.
“Your husband,” he ventured.
A memory shattered through my mind like a wrecking ball. I could see Thaddeo’s furious eyes, feel his grip, the screaming—
I shook my head, clearing my mind. “He doesn’t deserve it.”
Roman nodded. “Some people don’t deserve to be cared about,” he agreed, and turned back to his words. Something about conversation had settled him somewhat and he picked up his pen, ready to begin again. After a few seconds, he said, “Kostya cares about a lot of people. He said every good king does.”
“I’m not a king so how does that apply to me?” I folded a children’s book out in front of Roman. It was a colorful story about a dog trying to find his way home. Childish, hopeful, easy to read. “Start from the top.”
He didn’t follow my instruction. Roman leaned back in his chair, watching me. “I was fifteen.”
I frowned. “That is not what the book says.”
He ignored me. “I was fifteen when Konstantin found me. Street kid. Orphaned. Raised in the gutters of Moscow, if you will.”
I leaned back in my own chair. “Orphaned?”
“I think so. Or maybe my parents are still alive, running around smoking and snorting whatever they can get their hands on. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they weren’t there,” Roman said. “It was just me, my desire to live and my empty stomach.” Looking back, he seemed amused, but I doubted that was how he felt at the time.
“Did Konstantin seek you out?”
He laughed roughly. “No, I tried to rob him.”
“Tried?” I tried to force down my amusement, but it was no use. “Did he try to kill you?”
“Nope.” Roman looked out the window, thoughtfully. “He spared my life. Even bought me some food and a blanket.”
“Then how did you become his byki?”
He smiled, flashing teeth. “Well, after that, let’s just say I was a little protective of my benefactor. When another kid tried to rob him, I smashed their arm into the ground. Konstantin hired me on the spot. Said I had a natural talent for noticing threats and disposing of them.”
“Heartwarming,” I muttered.
“I would do anything for Kostya,” he said. “He is the Pakhan of the century. Shit, of the millennium. He will lead the Bratva into a new age.”
I scowled. “You sound like you’re part of a cult.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe you are. It doesn’t matter. This is my life; this is your life. And in this life, there are pakhans and there are byki. I am byki and Kostya is Pakhan.”
“Are those the only two positions?” I asked.
Roman’s eyes gleamed ferally. “No. No, they aren’t.” He cocked his head to the side. “Why? Thinking of sending in your resume? I recommend robbing him instead.”
“Hilarious,” I bitched. “No. I’m just asking. Or is the only job a woman can have a wife.”
“You’ve met Danika, Roksana and Tatiana. I’ll let you decide that for yourself.” Roman rocked back on the hindlegs of his chair. He scowled back at the words. “Reading sucks.”
“No, it doesn’t. You might even like it.” I tapped the bodice ripper he had been looking at earlier that we had tossed to the side. Babushka had claimed it as a makeshift pillow. “I’m sure Konstantin will let you buy all the erotica you want.”
Roman huffed. “He’s good like that.”
That caused me to smile. I quickly tried to hide my reaction but Roman caught it. He mocked shocked.
“The aloof and unfeeling Elena Falcone can smile?”
Instead of replying, my mind flashed back to Konstantin’s words.
When you laugh, the sun rises in your eyes.
I could still feel his finger tracing my collarbone, still smell his scent as he stood so close,