Page 1 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

T here’s a sticky stain on the edge of the white table. The tabletops and red booths at Fujimori’s are straight out of the sixties. The vinyl flooring is a mix of white and black tiles. Green plants are scattered throughout the Japanese restaurant.

I’m settled in a booth. A cutout along the wall gives a snapshot into the kitchen. It means I hear every word Abe and his dad mutter to one another. At least when I’m able to hear over the sizzling grill and clattering silverware.

Fujimori’s is a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant. I looked up reviews and it’s well-favored by tourists who find it authentic and charming.

Guess, they had no idea they were eating ramen while sitting next to a mobster.

Not, that I can judge. At least not anymore.

A month ago, I lived a normal life. As in, I didn’t work with said mobsters.

But I’m Aunt Macy’s niece. And now that the legendary woman is gone, someone has to run the business. For reasons unknown she picked me.

And I seriously don’t understand why.

I got a phone call a month back from her lawyer. Up until then, my aunt who wasn’t close with her sisters, was more fact than figure in my life. Every birthday and Christmas, I’d get a card with a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

I’d never talked to the woman. Never met her in real life. Even now I only have a faint glimmer of who she truly was. I’m told she regularly smoked cigarettes while lugging around her oxygen tank.

I do know she sat in this very booth. This is the table she’d take meetings at.

A broker of sorts, the lawyer said. He handed over some paperwork. The details are still slightly fuzzy, but my new friend Abe has helped get me up to speed.

I place my elbow on the table, hating the feeling of the sticky spot. I don’t dare complain to Jane, Abe’s mother. She’s super sweet and I don’t want to offend her.

Fujimori’s is a family-owned business. For almost seventy years it’s served as a meeting location for New York City’s most nefarious.

I thought Aunt Macy’s lawyer was joking. He was not.

Aunt Macy’s paying customers are looking for something. Usually hitmen. We get a lot of contractors looking for mercenaries. And then there’s some of the darker stuff. . . but I’m still pretty new to all of it.

Not that I want to show it.

Which is why I school my face blank when a man folds himself into the chair in front of me.

Dark eyes, and floppy brown hair that could pass for black. He’s young. Almost my age.

I expected an old Russian guy. The man in front of me is nothing like the client I envisioned.

He’s not beefy, but appears athletic. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, his chin dipping as he nods in greeting. He wears a black leather jacket and slides his phone into the inner pocket.

His movements are easy and assured. His smile bright. And okay, since when am I so taken in by a grin?

“You’re my eight o’clock?” It’s dark outside. I’ve come to learn meetings happen all throughout the day. This isn’t your typical nine-to-five. “I was expecting a Zimin.”

He nods again. “Roman Zimin. Ren Callahan?”

“Yes,” I confirm. The first few meetings I kept a notebook and had a pencil I toyed with, but taking notes about sensitive matters isn’t well regarded. My lawyer advised me for legal purposes, and due to client complaints, it would be best if I started to memorize everything.

Cliff, Aunt Macy’s lawyer, and my cousin, is a real fucking stickler for certain things. And I lowkey think he hates me.

But then again, he knows a lot more about the criminal world. I’d be stupid not to listen to his advice.

“You’re hiring a triggerman?” I ask. “I thought the bratva liked to keep things in house.”

Roman grins. It’s wide, but bashful at the same time. He runs a hand through his hair and I notice the flush along his otherwise pale skin. It’s unfair when guys are pretty.

He’s handsome. Well dressed. The cut of his shoulders defined.

I remind myself that Aunt Macy would notice all of these things, but not be swayed by them. It’s how she got her reputation as a tough-as-nails businesswoman.

“You trying to get more information out of me?” Roman asks.

I smile politely. “I just want to understand your current needs. Help you find the perfect match.”

“You mean the perfect mercenary?” he replies.

A piece of hair falls into my face as I nod. “I aim to satisfy all my customers.”

My cheeks heat when he lifts his brows.

Clearing my throat, I wave at a plastic menu in front of me. “If you’d like to order, please do so.”

He blinks and then looks down at the table in front of him. “Oh. . . no, I’m?—”

“Order something.”

Roman pauses, inspecting me again. “Aunt Macy. . .”

“Never made her customers order food,” I finish for him. “Yeah, well, I’m not Aunt Macy.”

Roman smiles, but the movement is slow. Like he’s reconfiguring a few things.

I clasp my hands together and lean forward. “The Fujimori’s have a business to run.” And so do I. “So, Roman Zimin. Triggerman. How about?—”

“Roma.”

“What?”

“You can call me Roma,” he says.

“Oh, okay.” I catch Jane’s eye and nod.

When she appears by our table, Roma pauses again. His hand taps against the menu before he asks for vegetable ramen. “What?” he asks when I wrinkle my nose. “I ordered like you wanted.

“Vegetables?” I ask.

“You have something against them?”

Yes. But there’s more important business to discuss.

He lazily hangs one arm on the back of his chair, while the other taps the table in front of him. It reminds me of my need to fidget.

“You know everyone expected Cliff to take over,” he says.

Everyone—including Cliff—expected him to take over.

“I didn’t even realize Aunt Macy had another relative,” Roma goes on.

“Well, technically she’s got two. She had another nephew. Bennie.”

He’s my favorite cousin and up until I met Cliff, the only one I thought I had.

Bennie and I grew up in the Midwest, both of us raised by our moms. They talked about Aunt Macy occasionally, but since their sister had twenty years on them, they were more like siblings in name only.

And turns out, thanks to their piece of shit dad, an entirely unknown sibling grew up in the North. Cliff tracked down his aunt after college. Aunt Macy helped him get through law school and everything.

He’d be a natural to take over the business, but for whatever reason she tapped me, her only niece.

“The keys to the kingdom,” Cliff said when he handed over the paperwork. The smile seemed a bit forced, but I can’t really blame him. I’d be pissed too, if my aunt passed me over. Especially considering, I knew nothing about the business.

Roma’s not the only person to bring up Cliff. Ben would say the questions are making me nervous for a reason. But he’s got good intuition and a shit ton of confidence. There’s a reason he’s in law school and I barely scraped by in college.

My plan is to convince Bennie to join me in the city after he graduates. We can all work for the family business together.

“You’re new to the city?” Roma asks.

I’ve tried my best not to appear like the Midwest transplant that I am, but it’s only been a month.

I smile. “As interesting as this is, by which I mean, you trying to dig for information, I’ve got another meeting in fifteen minutes.”

He’s not offended. “Fifteen minutes? I haven’t even gotten my food yet.”

Jane plunks down a bowl.

“I can’t eat that fast,” he says.

“There’s other tables. Or better yet, take it to go.”

He straightens in his chair, his head jerking back. “Jesus, no wonder Aunt Macy chose you.”

I pray my cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. “You think I’m like Aunt Macy?”

He picks up a pair of chopsticks. “You really didn’t know her?”

“Not very well,” I admit. His food smells to die for.

“This must be a lot then.”

“Not really,” I lie.

Warm brown eyes peer at me. He smirks slightly before digging into his food. Like he knows the truth.

“Look you want to hire a triggerman or not?”

He almost chokes on his food. But it’s due to laughter. “Fuck, fine.” He continues to laugh.

“What?” I ask.

I’ve met with other Russian businessmen. They’re all broad-shouldered, up-tight men. They didn’t sit back and hang out like Roma’s doing. It’s like he’s got all the time in the world. Like we’re just here to eat dinner and not plan out someone’s demise.

“You’re interesting, you know that?” he says before taking another bite.

“You’ve got a stain on your shirt.”

He glances down. A piece of noodle sticks to his shirt, the gray material damp.

For some reason, I like it when he blushes.

“You going to order food?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“So you’re just going to watch me eat?” He takes a bite.

“You’re down to ten minutes.” I point to a booth he’ll need to sit at when my next meeting comes in.

He’s so fucking sure of himself when he replies, “Twelve minutes.”

I try to guide the conversation back to the topic at hand. “You know how I take payment?”

His brown eyes are serious and unblinking as he watches me. I force air into my lungs.

Eye contact should not be so. . . intense.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“I can?—”

“Have you gone to any museums yet?”

“Museums?”

“New York has some of the best in the world.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t really seem like the museum type.”

He frowns. “Are you saying I look uneducated?”

“Hardly. You’re mafia royalty so I’m guessing private tutors and an ivy league education.”

“Private tutors? No. Ivy league, yes.”

A laugh escapes. “Of course.”

“Which means, I know a thing or two about museums.”

“You spend a lot of time talking to Aunt Macy about museums?”

He makes a face, twirling a noodle around his chopsticks. “Are you kidding me? No, she’d never let me sit at this table for so long.”

My mouth drops open, and another puff of laughter loosens my chest. “I can ask Abe for a to-go box.”

He sucks something off his thumb, his brow creasing. “You’re not very accommodating to your customers.”

“You’re sitting here, wasting my time.”

“I’m welcoming you to the city. Telling you about all the spots to check out.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?” he asks and there’s a double meaning behind his words.

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t have time for museums.”

“You work a hundred and sixty-eight hours a week?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Ren Callahan. Whatever you say.”

A bell over the front door chimes. Two men in suits fill the small entry.

“You want me to ask Abe for that to-go box?” I can feel a tiny smile on my face. It won’t go away.

Amusement brightens Roma’s face. He wipes his mouth and drops the napkin on the table. “I guess Jane will get my payment at the front?”

“Mhhmm,” I hum in confirmation as he stands up.

He smirks when he catches me scanning his tall frame, taking in the clothes and the lean but muscular body.

I don’t let myself look away in embarrassment. But he also doesn’t leave.

Which means for a good few seconds, Fujimori’s fades as we’re left staring at one another, wondering which of us will be the first to blink.