“And that includes the El Paso deal.” My dad shifts the conversation away from my private life and Tristan. He’s made it clear that talking about Tristan is beating a dead horse. Not that I believe the horse is truly dead yet.
El Paso was a project under locks just six months ago, but the shootout at the warehouse blew that wide open. So of course the Chadovichs are aware of it all now. The implosion of sales on the streets coming from our men also tipped them off. So now, it’s just another thing wecivilly discussat these meetings.
“That surprises me, Rozanov,” Dmitry says to my father. “I must admit, when I first heard about the deal, I was surprised you would take such risks. The commute. The interchanging. The sheer volume of it all. Dangerous work you’re doing.”
“You just said it yourself.” My father smiles. “The volume was unheard of until now. And risk reaps reward.”
“I suppose that depends on the amount of risk,” Dmitry says before smiling at his daughter. “I know for me that the safety of my family comes first. And my family is now legally intertwined with yours. Perhaps it would be in the best interest of everyone involved if El Paso was a… shared project.”
“El Paso is our deal,” I say before anyone else can even open their mouths. “Truce or no truce, our business is ours and I don’t intend to change that.”
“Perhaps we can make an arrangement.” Dmitry smirks in my direction. This fat, sweating, balding excuse for a man is pushing the wrong buttons.
“There is no offer extended on our end. Period.”
My declaration makes the entire table uncomfortable, but I mean it. Me marrying Jenica was to settle issues from the past. It doesn’t automatically make the Rozanovs and the Chadovichs business partners.
“Son,” my dad starts in an attempt to keep a good face, but I’m over it.
“I think we’re done here,” I say as I stand up. I extend my hand to Jenica so she knows we are leaving, though she doesn’t seem too happy about it. She downs her champagne quickly and takes my hand with a cracked smile.
And with that, we walk out.
“Would it kill you to be more civil?” Jenica asks me once we are home. She kicks her heels off on the marble tile, not even bothering to pick them up before heading to the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine.
I walk around her shoes that will most likely get put away by the hired help because Jenica is a child. “I think I was plenty civil.”
“If that was you being civil, I’d hate to see you mad.”
“If this conversation continues much further down this path, you’re going to get a front row seat.”
But Jenica just laughs as she pours a brimming glass of wine. “The Rozanovs have always had tempers.”
“And the Chadovichs have always been greedy,” I bite back. “They want what they haven’t worked for and will take it at any cost.”
I’m not just talking about my brother. I’m talking about everything we have had taken from us, mainly from her cousin.
“Can we just have dinner in peace?”
As if on cue, the cook starts setting the table. She remains silent and ignorant as usual—a smart move.
“Gladly,” I say.
Jenica takes a seat at the table that is long enough for twelve people. I sit across from her, all the way on the other side of the room.
I can feel her eyes on me as I unfold my cloth napkin and place it on my lap. I evaluate the pork tenderloin in front of me, cooked to perfection with a side of steamed asparagus and roasted red potatoes.
Jenica cuts into her meat, makes a face, pushes the potatoes around on the plate and then stabs a spear of asparagus and takes a disgusted bite.
“Is the food not to your liking, Mrs. Rozanov?” the cook reluctantly asks.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Though I would rather have salmon than pork…”
“Would you like me to make you something el?—”
“I said it’s fine,” she bullets out, and the cook scurries away.
I study Jenica from across the table. “You’re in a pleasant mood this evening.”
