Vik (Shot Callers 2)

Unfortunately for me, Roam was my meal ticket. And I had a feeling he already knew that.

There was something off about this guy, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

He wore a suit well, but it looked as though it chaffed him. His stylish appearance said one thing, but the defensive stance of his said another. His confidence was off the charts, but his obsidian eyes were almost unhinged. His movements were slow and precise, as though he knew I was watching for any sign of weakness.

Maybe I just didn’t like him because he was Romanian.

I’d never met a Rom I liked.

Built like a tank, he was tall and muscular, even more so than I was. His features were sharp and biting. The casual way he leaned back in his chair as though I was no threat to him had my pride aching for a fight. He ran a hand through his dark longish hair and looked at me a while. He was searching me. But, as was my nature, I revealed nothing.

We sat in silence for as long as he wished, and when he decided to speak, the first thing he rumbled out was “How dirty are you willing to get?”

With that one query, I learned everything I needed to know about The Disciples.

They were messy.

I didn’t have qualms with using my strength against other men, but I would not put my hands on a woman. Not ever.

My response was terse. “Filthy.”

This man, who did not look as though he smiled a lot, grinned then. But again… there was something unnatural about it.

“My kind of guy.” The grin he wore fell away almost immediately, and when he opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a tin, and began to roll a joint, he spoke through the process. “You’re unattached. I need the muscle. This might just work out. I know you’re Chaos-born and your pops was pretty high up the ladder,” he spoke clinically, without emotion. “I know you were well on your way to climbing that ladder yourself before Sasha decided to pull the plug. And maybe that suited him.” He licked the edge of the paper and began to roll. “But I don’t think that suited you, did it, Viktor?”

I said nothing, because it was a moot discussion. Whether or not I was happy in that life did not matter. This was where I was right now, and I did not look back.

Forward was the way out of this mess.

Roam finished rolling one joint, then started on another, sparing me the shortest of glances as he did. “I think you want back in, and I know why. This life—” He spread the greenery onto the paper, and his lip lifted slightly. “—it’s a good life, ain’t it? People like you. People like me. Without crime… without corruption… extortion… without men fearing us, what are we?” His brow lowered, and his jaw tightened. “Nothing. We didn’t choose this way of life but”—he cocked his brow—“I ain’t mad it found me.”

My own brow lowered. I refused to concede, but I felt that. Roam looked to be around my age, similar background, comparable beginnings, but that was where the comparison ended.

One look at him screamed wealth. His clothes were expensive, the artwork surrounding us was lavish, and the heavy hand-carved mahogany desk looked priceless. I mean, here we were, sitting in a huge building off Madison Avenue.

Shit. I didn’t even want to think about how much the rent was, and if he’d bought it?

Hell.

The guy had dough to burn.

Jealousy crept up, laid heavy on my mind. And, yes, in that moment, I could see his point. What had living a legit life gotten me? Nothing, stalling on a road to nowhere. And maybe Sasha had done what was best for him and his, but he didn’t stop to think about what it meant for me and mine. And we suffered.

My father had no working experience outside of Chaos. Not exactly sure how one could write that kind of experience out on a resume, if you know what I mean. Our investments were small and tapped out a while ago. My mother, who never had the need for employment, was now working a small seamstress business from home, and it ate my father raw. To see his woman stepping up and laboring over a sewing machine ’til late at night was all he could bear. The seemingly inconsequential amount she earned was putting food on our table but would never be enough to pay the bills. And they were growing in number.

Accounts in the red, I was now the sole provider for my family, and while I attempted to draw a line in the sand, I already dipped into my savings far enough to make me worry. And although Anika offered to pay her share, I would rather cut my hands off than take a dime from my sister.