Page 89 of The Marriage

The universe gave Roman everything he felt like he deserved.

Distracted in his self-loathing, it took his cell phone three rings before he noticed it vibrating in his hands. Peering over the back property from a spare bedroom, he answered the call with a snapped, “What?”

Exhaustion was getting the better of him, but who could sleep?

“What’s the fucking plan?” Lincoln asked. “For the rat problem in the basement, I mean.”

Even on burner phones. One couldn’t be too safe considering the circumstances. Roman immediately knew what the man meant as they were still holding down the issue at the loft with Masha.

Roman scrubbed his hand over his face to muffle the sigh. Masha needed to be kept in check and subdued until Karine was found, and then he would decide what to do with her. She was the least of his problems when she was just one more issue that was better kept contained at the moment. It was the man’s short patience for watching Masha that irritated Roman the most, though.

“I have other shit to handle, man,” Lincoln told Roman.

If only he cared.

“And? The organization has a problem. It trumps yours every time. As for the rat ... leave it be, feed it occasionally. Otherwise, nothing,” he growled into the phone.

He knew the guys didn’t want the added responsibility of having to keep an eye on Masha. Tough shit—they really had nothing left to do after they removed the remaining stolen car from the garage. Work was out of the question with attention on them again, anyway.

Reminding himself everybody was human, he unlatched the window’s lock, pushed it open, and lit a smoke. He went back to the conversation with Lincoln after the first drag of nicotine soothed his frayed nerves with a slightly better attitude.

Not by much.

“Listen, I get nobody wants to play babysitter, but it won’t be for long, okay?” he asked the man.

Lincoln grumbled something too low for Roman to hear before muttering, “Whatever, man.”

“Bill me for the food,” Roman joked dryly. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Don’t speak so soon. Kostya just made another run about a half hour ago. That’s our fifth in—”

Beep.

Roman jerked the phone away from his ear to eye a number on the screen he didn’t recognize. Call-waiting. Only a select few people had the digits to his burner phone at any given time as he replaced them often and only kept in contact with people he needed to at any given moment. Everything else could wait, and for a long time, it served him well.

Lincoln’s voice buzzed in the phone, but Roman was already answering the strange number. “Da?”

The Russian came out smooth, and the reply was damn near as instant.

“Roman—it’s Chet.”

The unknown voice spoke like the two men were friends.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Not important. Listen, it’s unfortunate that your man Kostya had to die, but he was kind enough to give me your phone number. Tell his friend I left the food on the dumpster. The rats might get it, though. I digress ... I have a message for you.” Roman didn’t even have time to process what was being said before the man named Chet added, “A message for the Devil of Little Odessa—bit dumb, that name.”

A hired gun?

Maybe.

He got that impression, but who knew? Dima could be working with anyone. A lot of people would do a lot of things for the right price.

“Who’s sending the message?”

Although, he was sure he knew. Bringing up a childhood moniker that had chased him into a wild adulthood like it was a joke screamed pettiness.

And Dima.