Forced By the Ruthless Bratva Beast (Tarasov Bratva #3)

Chapter 11 – Roman

Eyes narrowing down at the pool table in front of me, I bent over, cue stick positioned to align with deadly precision. I could feel their gazes lingering on me, especially Afanasy's intense stare—he clearly was rooting for a rotten shot.

I raised my head to look at his face for a moment, savoring the skepticism in his expression. With a smirk playing on my lips, I returned my focus to the task at hand, and seconds later, I struck the cue ball with a smooth motion.

The sound of clanking balls rolling over the surface filled the air as the table erupted into colorful chaos. The cue ball had kissed the 7-ball, sending it spinning into the corner pocket.

At my shot, solids and stripes careened off rails, colliding and rebounding in unpredictable patterns. I jerked my head, watching as Afan's eyes trailed the balls scattering across the table.

Afan's breath hitched in his throat as he squinted, watching the 9-ball roll tantalizingly close to the center pocket. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breath as the ball finally fell in.

“Nice shot, Roman,” Mikhail said, his brows arching at the precision of my strike.

“Don't praise him. He got lucky.” Afan grinned, unphased, and locked eyes with me.

“Dude, you've lost to him three times already,” Mikhail said, chuckling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “In a fucking row.” He laughed.

“Yeah, well, as the saying goes, third time's the charm.” His lips curled into a sly smile. “Or, as in this case, the fourth time's the charm.” He let out an evil laugh, chalking his cue stick.

Boris, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow at Afan's confidence, his expression softening ever so slightly.

Mikhail lined up his shot, his focus intense, but the cue stick slipped, veering the ball off target. Unworried, he shrugged off his failed attempt. “You know what they say about pride, Afan?” He looked at him, referencing his earlier boast.

“It’s not pride, cousin. It's called confidence. You should try it sometimes,” Afan replied, his voice laced with amusement and his tone teasing but not mocking.

Mikhail chuckled, stealing a glance at me.

“I'll take you down, brother. Watch.” Afan bent over to take his shot, his eyes narrowing at the cue balls with rapt attention.

Boris and Mikhail both had their gazes lingering on him while I stood poised, arms across my chest, with a smile on my face. I knew my brother better than he would ever admit; he was going to flop. And I couldn't wait to see the look in his eyes.

“You don't have all day. Just take the shot,” Boris chipped in, his voice dripping with anticipation.

“Hey, don't rush greatness, okay? I'm about to break the record here,” came Afan's response, his eyes never leaving the ball.

“Your trash talk isn't gonna help you much, you know,” Mikhail said to him, brows arching.

“You're distracting me, cousin. I'm trying to focus here,” Afan said, seemingly becoming one with the table, the balls, and the cue stick in his hand.

Mikhail raised his hands slightly, backing away with a low chuckle.

We watched as Afan tightened his grip on the cue stick, squinting and moving his hands in tandem to align the tip with the cue ball. Afan's index finger slid along the length of the stick as if finding a good balance point.

The air was thick with anticipation, and then, finally, my brother took the shot, striking the cue ball with perfect precision.

However, as I’d already predicted, the target ball was clipped at the wrong angle, causing it to spin into the side rails. The ball bounced off and soon came to rest inches from the pocket.

Mikhail burst out laughing. “After all that concentration, you still missed.”

“Looks like the fourth time isn't the charm after all,” Boris said, his voice low and mocking as he flashed a faint smirk.

I narrowed my eyes at him, keeping my tone playful. “Maybe you should have tapped the table four times.”

“That was just a warm-up shot, people,” Afan said, straightening, unphased by our mocking remarks. “I’m saving the magic for the next one.” He winked, chuckling.

We all laughed.

There was never a dull moment with these guys; hanging out with them was the perfect distraction for me.

At least I was focused on something that wasn't Julia. The woman had been on my mind all day, every day since the auction. Thoughts of what would have happened between us if her manager hadn't interrupted constantly played in my head.

I still wondered why she’d had misted eyes, though—why I saw that guilt in their depths—but I didn't want to dwell on that right now. I was with the boys, and I shouldn't be thinking about Julia at the moment.

“Hey, I've been meaning to ask,” Mikhail jerked his head at me. “What about the hostess from the other night?” Curiosity flashed in his gaze.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah?” Afan concurred, nodding as he shifted his attention to me. “The intelligent one with the sexy body.” There was a glimmer of lust in his tone that made my jaw clench. “Did you have any luck with her? Because damn, she was fine—a drop-dead gorgeous diva. I mean, look at that shape.” He gestured with his hands, air molding her figure.

I felt the deep creases lining my forehead, and my eyebrows furrowed at him, hinting at my disapproval of his lust.

“Did you see her legs? Man, she was a knockout.” Mikhail chuckled, swinging his cue stick over his shoulder.

The anger in me was swelling up, and my chest was starting to heave slowly. I didn't appreciate their tone or the way they painted her as some hooker.

“Brother, she was totally into you,” Afan said to me, oblivious to the scowl on my face. “Please tell me you fucked her because if you didn't, I just might shoot my shot.” He laughed.

“Do that, and I'll forget you're my brother when I put a bullet in your chest.” I glared at him, my eyes narrowing and jaw clenching.

He swallowed, his smile gradually vanishing as he saw just how stern my gaze was. Afan knew he'd overstepped—he'd crossed one of my lines.

“Apologies, brother. I meant no disrespect.” His hands were raised slightly in a defensive motion. He locked his eyes with me, finding his smile again. “You like her, don't you?” Afan teased, his grin widening. “That's why you're defending her.”

“What's going on, boys?” The familiar voice shifted our attention to the speaker as he approached us, followed by the distinctive stomp of his walking stick on the floor.

“Uncle Ivan,” we chorused, heads bowing in reverence.

“We’re just teasing Roman about some girl he fancies,” Mikhail added, bringing our uncle into the fold.

I shifted my glare at my cousin, but he refused to look in my direction; his eyes were fixed on Uncle Ivan.

The old man's brows arched, amusement washing over his face. “Roman fancies a girl? It's about time.” He chuckled, halting in front of me with Jorah standing by the bar.

“Yeah, but he doesn't wanna admit it,” Afan said, resting against a wall behind him.

Uncle Ivan looked at me and laughed, placing a palm on my shoulder. “You should be thinking about settling down and starting a family now, Roman. You've come of age.”

I scoffed, pinching the bridge of my nose. I was certain some heartwarming speech was on the way, and I honestly wasn't ready for that now.

“You know,” he began, a smile playing on his lips, “my babushka used to say a woman is the warmth that makes a house a home.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “I think you're ready for that warmth, Roman.” He tapped my shoulder. “Get yourself a wife—a good one—because a good wife is like a good shot of vodka; she'll warm your heart and soothe your soul.”

“Ahh. That's a good one, Uncle,” Afan said, nodding his head in agreement.

I let out a sigh but said nothing, although deep down, I knew he was right.

He looked deeper into my eyes, and a small grin spread across his face. “You know, girls from our allied families would be a perfect match for you, nephew.”

I raised my brows in disbelief, but he continued regardless. “What do you think of the Petrov girls? I hear they're of good behavior, and the eldest daughter is ripe for marriage, too.” He winked at me.

My expression was blank, my countenance radiating disinterest as I stared at him.

“No?” His eyes narrowed, and he pressed on. “What about the Kuznetsov or even Sokolov family? A union with any of them would be beneficial to the Bratva and also strengthen our alliances.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” I said, forcing a grin. “But I don't need any matches. I'll get married to whoever I want when I feel like it.”

The disappointment in his gaze was subtle, but it was there—I could see it.

He nodded, breaking eye contact for a moment. “You still think about her, don't you? Emily?”

My blood boiled at the mention of her name, and my jaw tightened. My scowl deepened, my forehead creased, and my brows knitted together in anger as buried memories came flooding my mind.

Her face flashed in my head, and I could hear the sound of her laughs—her giggles. Her voice echoed in my thoughts, causing my heart to race.

“It's been twenty-one years already, nephew. Please, let go of her ghost,” he beseeched, pleading with his eyes.

I gritted my teeth, casting a stern glare at him—if he wasn't my uncle, I wasn't sure what I wouldn't have done to him for making that statement.

Silence fell amongst us as I continued to seethe, fingers balling into fists. Everyone else in the room knew better than to raise that subject around me; they knew that saying that name always triggered me.

Emily used to be the love of my life. I wasn't always so cold and devoid of emotions. There was a time when I was a lover boy who would do anything for my sweet Emily.

However, sweet turned sour and bitter when the unexpected happened, forcing me to become the man I was today.

I glared at Uncle Ivan, eyes blazing with unspoken anger as my intense silence radiated across the room. Avoiding my piercing stare, the others cast their heads down, none saying a word.

He realized that he'd made a mistake bringing up Emily.

Uncle sighed softly. “I'm sorry, Roman. I didn't mean to trigger you.”

This rage would pass, and I would eventually hate the way I glared at Uncle Ivan. It wasn’t his intention to upset me—he was just being a parent.

It was clear that I hadn't completely healed from that wound; it still hurt so much like it was yesterday. He was right. I still carried her ghost around, and that was the reason I shut myself out. Emily had been my world, and when that world crumbled to the ground, I withdrew into the shadows, becoming one with the darkness that enveloped my life.

I thought I'd made peace with my demons, but obviously, I hadn't.

My chin rested against my chest as I rubbed my fingers over my eyeballs in a soothing motion. My mind was chaotic; I was fighting to bury those fond memories creeping back to the surface. I couldn't let them in.

I couldn't let myself feel all that pain again; it would be catastrophic, and that was the last thing I needed right now.

My eyes shut for a fleeting moment as I drew in a breath and let it out slowly, pushing these heartbreaking memories to the back of my mind.

I heard my phone chime, distracting me from my thoughts. Digging a hand into my pocket, I withdrew the device, my eyes darting at the lit screen.

It was a text.

You busy? Can we talk? It's me, Julia.

The sight of her name sent a wind of relief across my face, filling my heart with peace and calmness.

I put the phone back in my pocket and let out a soft exhale.

This was the perfect way to get my mind off these drowning memories.