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Roman steps inside with a bottle of water. “Here,” he says flatly, holding it out like a bone to a starving dog.
I stare at him. “Go to hell.”
“You need it.”
“You need a conscience.”
I don’t know what flips in me, but I don’t take the water. Iswat itfrom his hand, sending it flying across the floor where it rolls and settles by the far wall.
He looks down at the bottle. And then without hesitation—crack.
His hand strikes my face.
The sting is immediate. Blinding. My head jerks sideways, eyes burning, a metallic taste blooming on my tongue. For a second, everything spins.
“I won’t hesitate to hurt you,” he says, voice deadly calm. “You think I won’t hit a pregnant woman? Try me again.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My cheek throbs, and I’m shaking too hard.
Roman crouches in front of me, studying me like I’m some disappointing student.
“I didn’t want to do that,” he says. “But you need to understand the stakes.”
“You used to be his friend,” I whisper.
Roman’s face hardens. “I was his brother.”
My face stings. My eyes blur. I taste blood and humiliation and rage, all tangled together.
Roman straightens slowly. Like that was supposed to teach me something. Like hurting me is just a chore he’s resigned to.
He turns toward the door but hesitates. And then—without looking at me—he speaks.
“You want to know why I’m here?” he says. “Why I turned on him?”
I don’t respond. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
He exhales. Not annoyed. Just…tired. He leans against the wall, arms folded like he’s been carrying this story for too long.
“Fifteen years ago,” he starts, “I ran everything on the East Coast for Damien. Quietly. Clean. I built the pipeline. I kept the cops off his ass. I took the bullets so he didn’t have to. That’s how it works in the Bratva—you build for the one above you.”
He glances down. “And when it came time to hand out territory…you know what he gave me?”
I don’t answer.
“Nothing. He passed me over. Said I’d be more useful by his side. Watching his back. Said he needed me close.” Roman scoffs. “But then he started bringing in new people. Outsiders. Americans. Guys who’d never spilled a drop of blood for this organization.”
His jaw tightens. “He trusted them with the future.”
Now his eyes land on me. Cold. Controlled. But not empty. Never empty.
“I gave him everything. And in return, I got a pat on the head and a lifetime sentence as second-best. A servant. Not a partner.”
My stomach sinks. The resentment rolls off him like heat. Not madness. Not greed.
Betrayal.
“And Lev?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.