Roman took a seat in the decadently furnished lobby within the bosses hideout. There he was made to waited. A year ago nothing got done without his involvement. He had the respect of the entire Russian family here in Miami. Now, he waited for his turn to speak with the new boss, as if he were nothing more then a common earner. The insult couldnt be any clearer, if the boss came down from his pent house and personally spat in his face.

How the times have changed in a handful of years. He was on his way to owning this town. That was before… Roman steeled his thoughts. "No matter. Nothing in life worth having comes easily." Roman reminded himself. He had survived, and the ability to keep fighting is victory onto itself. The current boss was only prolonging the inevitable.

Roman lounged back in the massive wrap-around sofa, doing his best to hide his contempt for his mistreatment. He knew his weathered face, and dark disposition made him appear older and gloomier then he truly was, so his scowling would be overlooked. He adjusted the buttons of his vest that he wore over his black shirt. They, and his shiny black dress shoes, differentiated him from the other Russian mobsters in their all but matching white suits… But he was already differentiated from them. Suffice it to say, his real name was not Roman the Romanian, it was Ivan, but he would always be Roman from Romania to them.

His eyes drifted around the outrageous décor of the boss's place. Over the top, unnecessarily eye catching. His taste in decoration matched the way he ran his father's criminal empire. His father knew how to run a business. He was brutal, ruthless and without pity, but he was also a man of order, and integrity. He knew how to treat those who were assets, and destroyed anyone who wasnt.

He could have easily left Roman in the back of the truck with the rest of his counterfeiting crew, but he saw something in him. He gave Roman a chance. Roman would like to think he rewarded The Father's confidence ten fold, becoming first a brutal enforcer, and then his top earner.

Roman's eyes drifted to the dark skinned mobster standing by the door of the lobby, with his arms clasped in front of his body like some kind of secret service agent. He wore the Russian mobster "uniform" a white blazer and pants, and at first glance wouldnt look much different from any other of The Son's lackeys. But under that calm, professional gaze and his clean shaved head, lurked one of the most dangerous killers in the world.

A legend amongst the Russian mafia. Nobody knows where the The Father found him, but his work in the cleaning business was infamous. His calling card was killing everyone in a building, without alerting a soul, and without witnesses. The man was a ghost, silent, professional and methodical. He used a silenced 9mm pistol, and when he had jobs with more victims then he had bullets, he used lamps, pens, pencils, golf clubs, skateboards, anything he found lying around the building, he would use it as a weapon to finish the job.

The world's top hitman now he stood in Roman's way, flanking the door, like a motionless gargoyle perched to block his path. Instead of having him out and plying his trade, The Son made an efficient tool his bodyguard, only sending him to work for on specialized jobs.

He met the bodyguards unnervingly neutral gaze with a fearless look. He wouldnt let The Son's "boogy man" frighten him. He would not let a man who a year ago, was his equal in the family, become his superior. He had worked with the bodyguard several times, and while he admired the man's grace and skill, he did not fear him. He had one thing the bodyguard would never have. Ambition, and the will to see it through. The bodyguard was the best triggerman in the business, but he was still just a trigger.

Without vision, without drive, skills were meaningless. People with minds like the bodyguard's were useful when it came to solving a problem. But ask the same man what play to make so the problem never existed in the first place, and you'd just be wasting your time. The triggerman was the one who solved problems. Roman was a planner, someone who created enterprise for the family.

At least he did, until the Colombians moved in on the Russian's territory. That was another reason why he did not fear the boss's henchman, he could see something no one else did. A crack. A weakness behind his professional facade. It was the henchman's fault they lost the territory in the first place, as far as Roman saw it. If the boss's father was still alive, the Colombians wouldnt have sensed weakness.

They seized the opportunity to hit them, while they were still reeling from the animal mask attacks. It was the henchman's job, to find their bloodthirsty ringleader, Jacket, before he found them. But Jacket found them first. Again and again, wherever Jacket showed up, everybody died.

What's more, while Roman and the henchmen were still sifting for clues and breaking legs for any information they could dig up on that animal, Jacket, came into The Father's own building and killed them all. He even killed the patron of the family, a defenseless, wheel chair bound geriatric by putting a bullet in his head.

Roman knew if the henchmen had completed his job, the family would never be where it was today. Roman smiled to himself, as he recalled the subtle ways he let the henchman know this. Tiny implications and half remarks, just enough to twist the knife, to plant the seed of an idea that was already there.

With many little strokes a large tree is felled, and so, doubt and failure had weakened the henchman's resolve, and Roman was probably the only one who knew it. Still, the henchman was still a threat, in many ways now more then ever. From what little he could glean from the rest of the mobsters, he learned the henchman had been poisoning the water for Roman.

The repulsive drone probably sensed Roman's ambition, something a simple trigger could never have, and did his best to make sure he did not succeed. After The Father's passing, The Son took the henchman to his side like a surrogate brother, perhaps more accurately, like some relic of his father's past. This would work to Roman's favor in the long run. Being around The Son would further drive the guilt of the his failures into the henchman's mind, but for now, the boss's closest confidant was turning The Son's mind against Roman.

A muffled scream rang out from somewhere in the building, no doubt originating from The Son's room. Roman's body tensed, and for a brief moment he felt fear claw its way into his heart before forcing it from his body, like the wretched poison it was. He had trained and molded his body and mind since he was a young man, for there was no greater control then over oneself. He recited the Japanese proverb in his mind. "Work of self, obtainment of self."

He would not let doubt weaken his resolve. However, Roman couldnt allow himself to ignore the possibility that the henchman's forked tongue may have painted him as a threat to The Son's rule. He wasn't given a new market to corner or operation to run since he lost his turf at the hands of the Colombians. He had fallen out of favor, that much was clear… but just how far?

Roman steeled himself and walked from the red leather couch to face the awaiting henchman. The henchman narrowed his eyes slightly, before Roman spoke. "My time is money. The kind of money I bring to the family is not something you should keep waiting." Roman's face was confident mask as the henchman studied. "Its your ass." Was all he had to say before opening the door for Roman. Much to his displeasure, the henchman followed him through the long wrap around hallway to the boss's room. He strained his hearing, listening for more of the blood curdling screams. It was faint but he picked up the sounds of muffled sobs coming from the room.

When they arrived at the door, the henchman flanked Roman and reached his hand out to the door latch. He turned to Roman once again. "You sure about this?" The henchman asked. Roman didnt like the atmosphere surrounding his visit, but he had come to far to back down now. "Open the door." He commanded.

Roman couldnt help but flinch as he saw a spurt of blood gush from the sword wound across the chest of a man chained from the ceiling by his wrists. Roman had walked into the of an interrogation. After quickly scanning the bound victim, he realized it was nothing so productive. That The Son was torturing him for tortues sake, by taking cuts out of him with a katana, a Japanese sword.

The Son screamed with masculine exubrance as he swung the katana through the hair, slicing another superficial, but painful cut across the bound man's abdomen. "I almost got you that time. A little deeper and we'd be swimming in your guts." The Son said as he playfully spun the katana in his hands.

Roman watched the man struggle and squirm against the chains like a worm on a hook. A sock or rag had been stuffed into his mouth. Roman took the sadistic distraction to carefully survey the rest of the room. Three other mobster watched their boss as he worked. He studied their faces. Their expressions were a mixture of amusement and terror. While he could see some benefit for the young boss to behave this way, it is safer to be feared then liked by your men after all, still the crude barbarism of it all disgusted Roman.

Roman was not a fan of The Son's way of business in general. It was as if The Son had somehow read his mind, gleaned every procedure, rule and strategy Roman had to offer… and chose to do the exact opposite in all regards.

Roman watched the tall, burly man. He took the time to study his foe. He knew the young boss was reckless… if you could even call it that. There would have to create a whole new word to properly describe his actions. Ever since his father died, something sparked within him. He did not fear death, he flirted with it, he courted it. No stake was to high, no risk to great, no thrill to costly, and against all odds, he was somehow still alive.

As much as Roman hated the man, he begrudgingly acknowledged that for a man to live life as The Son does and to remain in control of a criminal empire for so long… he either had the devils luck or his cunning. Either way, Roman knew it would be a fatal flaw to underestimate him.

The henchman waited at the doorway as Roman approached The Son from behind. The Son didnt notice him, or was pretending not to. He raised his katana above his head in a high guard. Roman was mildly impressed. The Son had some training in kenjutsu, Japanese swordmanship, something he didnt think a barbarian like him would be capable of. "Last chance TJ." The Son said, before one of the mobster moved to the bound thugs side, removing his gag. "Wait, wait! Please, dont do this!" Was all that escaped the thugs lips. "Goodbye TJ." The Son said in response before letting out a battle cry. He swung the katana with both hands in a powerful horizontal cut. The mobster barely had time to move out of the way to avoid being slashed himself, as the powerful blow from the Japanese blade sliced through the bound man's waist and spine, stopping a few inches short of completely cutting him in half. With an angry flick of the blade, he severed the final strands of flesh and muscle, letting the bound man's lower half fall to the floor to meet his blood and visera that had already slid from the dying man's body. Roman watched the look of shock wash over the thugs face, before it relaxed and the light behind his eyes fading away.

"A sound strike, almost perfect." Roman interjected. The tower of a man stiffened ever so slightly, turning his head to gaze over his shoulder at him. His eyes were mostly veiled by his strings of dark, shoulder length hair that hung from his head like black shiny tentacles covered in sweat. "Almost huh?" The Son said in an oddly dejected tone. Roman shrugged before nodding. "Almost."

The Son laughed maniacally, waving his hand to dismiss Roman's words as he turned around. Roman faced The Son for the first time in many months. His vibrant green eyes were no less penetrating, through the watery glaze of whatever designer drug he was on at the time. The massive, twisted scars covered his cheek like a gnarled vine, made his left eye remain partly open each time he blinked. His broad shoulders and hulking frame barely fit in his tight fitting white suit that he wore like the rest of the Russian mobsters.

His hands, tightened their grip on his sword, as his piercing gaze burrowed into Roman. "Maybe you'd like to show me how its done, yea?" The Son smiled fiercely, before turning to walk to the wall he had painted like a giant USSR flag. The wall where he had his massive weapon rack, filled to bursting with AK model rifles and other various rifles, pistols and submachine guns.

He pulled a second katana hanging criss cross against the empty scabbard belonging to the sword in his hand and threw it at Roman. Roman's eyes widened as the sword flew towards him, handle first, but managed to catch it from the air, swinging the blade up and inspecting its craftsmanship. It wasnt a terrible sword. Whoever did the big ape's shopping for him, had an eye for quality.

He glanced at the half severed corpse, still swaying side to side gently, from the killing blow The Son had dealt him. "No, not on that piece of meat, right here. Here is your target." The Son said with a wild grin. Roman's stomach churned as he watched the mob boss posture in front of him, and the rest of his men peaked their interest from the sidelines. They watched with morbid curiosity, looking back and forth between the two men.

The Son unbuttoned his shirt a few buttons, before simply tearing it open the rest of the way, sending the buttons bouncing across the floor. He stood there with his muscular chest exposed for Roman, while his eyes issued a manic challenge. When Roman hesitated, The Son stepped foreword suddenly, bringing the katana high above his head. Roman took a low stance, controlling his flared emotions by releasing calm, disciplined breath from his nostrils. He met the big apes wild gaze with a stern, intense look of his own.

No sooner then he moved to defend himself, something stirr within The Son's eyes. As Roman steeled himself for whatever erratic game or impulse The Son was planning to spring on him, he felt his body tense and tremble, at the aura behind The Son's gaze. Roman prided himself on his ability to read people, to see their thoughts and emotions, but as he looked into The Son's eyes, he saw something he could not comprehend. A burning passion, a wild, uncontrollable urge to conquer. It was unlike anything Roman had ever witnessed before.

In every way Roman was different from the henchman, The Son was different from Roman. Roman only thought he knew what ambition was, until he looked into the eyes of The Son. He was wild and untethered, a beast with untold power, waiting to explode without warning.

"No." Roman thought. It wasnt ambition that drove The Son, it was something else. "What was it?" What could drive a man to live his life on the edge, to court both chaos and death with such fervor? Roman had no answers, he only knew The Son was far more complicated then he originally predicted and he was standing toe to toe with him, and within swords reach.

He broke his gaze from The Son, unable to maintain his consuming glare. He had miscalculated. He meant to show The Son he was competent and unafraid, someone worthy of respect. In doing so he wound up challenging the man. He didnt blame himself, The Son was erratic, he heard and saw what he wanted to.

Regardless, he was in a position he was never intended to be in. A position where he had only losing moves to make. Ironically he had fantasized about this moment in the past. To have The Son within swords reach. To somehow goad the barbarian king into a friendly duel of skill and finesse. He was sure he could defeat a man like this, or at least he was until he saw the mettle of the man up close.

If The Son took that powerful overhead swing that Roman could feel the brute's body aching to deliver, Roman would step to the side and bring the sword up from his low stance, across The Sons stomach. A text book maneuver and an age old lesson that skill will defeat brutality every time. But what then? Before he could even turn his head, the henchman would put a bullet in his temple. The rest of the mobsters he could deal with, they were just sheep. He was almost certain they would follow him without question if they saw him fell the brute, but the henchman… he was loyal. He would kill Roman out of principle.

There was a second option of course. He could put his sword down and grovel like a lowly rube. Beg The Son's forgiveness, and bow before him. Not only was that as hateful an option as dying, but he predicted it was almost as likely end with in his demise. The Son would see his weakness as an opening for the killing blow, an invitation to dominate and take his life. If the situation were ever reversed, Roman would savor such a victory.

"Hey boss, um its getting kinda tense in here isnt it? Why dont you two use those keno sticks you bought… instead of cutting each other to pieces?" The henchman said from the side. Roman blinked. The henchman had given him a way out. He studied The Son's reaction very carefully. His inferno like gaze melted into a playful energy, as he smiled broadly. He let out a hardy laugh.

"You worry to much. I'm the boss, I know how to take care of myself." The Son said with a chuckle. Roman hoped to retain his calm, collected appearance, as he lowered his sword. "Its pronounced, kendo sticks, for the record." Roman said. The henchman didnt respond, he simply watched Roman uneasily. The Son walked foreword and took the katana from Roman's hand, before turning to replace them on his weapons rack. "Someone clean this shit up, we got work to do here!" The Son said, gesturing to the two halves of the corpse.

Roman followed The Son to the glass table surrounding the large L shaped leather sofa as cleaning girls wearing skimpy French maid aprons pranced towards the corpse to clean it up. The Son sat at the sofa, lounging back with his arms out over the back of the sofa. Roman chose to sit on the other end of the L, the closest thing to facing the Russian boss on his impractical furniture. The Son watched the maids as they worked with a hungry gaze. Roman followed his gaze and saw the flash of the cleaning girls asses under their short skirts of their ridiculous outfits.

"Lets make this quick. Nothing gets me hard like watching some babes on their hands and knees cleaning up blood." Roman hesitated before answering. He felt a small pang of sympathy for the dozens of sluts The Son had at his beck and call. It must be a full time job to keep up with this man's sexual apatite. "Indeed… we're here to talk business." Roman said. The Son laughed at this. "Indeed… indeed! Hah! You always talk like a businessman or something. You know that?" The Son said with a sneer. Roman wasnt sure if he was supposed to take that as an insult or not.

The Son waved his hand, and a mobster came from the back room, with a large duffle bag filled with rattling containers. When the mobster threw it onto the glass table, The Son quickly unzipped it open and turned it to the side, pouring half of its contents onto the table. The contents that spilled out were blank prescription pill bottles, filled with colorful pill capsules.

"Here's our… "business" as you say… It's the new product, and it is sweet…" The Son said with a flourish, kissing his fingertips before opening his hand in a dramatic way. The Son was no doubt speaking from experience. Roman nodded proudly before replying. "Designer drugs. Cheap, powerful stimulants and narcotics, made right here in the city. I was the one who suggested to your father, we should move into widespread production as soon as possible. I'd like to think that he…"

Roman stopped as The Son's laughter interrupted his line of thought. "This guy, he's a funny guy isnt he? Isnt he!?" He said to his men with a playful, yet sinister tone. The rest of the mobsters, including the henchman nodded. He turned his playful but dangerous gaze back to Roman. "He would take credit for my fathers work, now that he isnt here to say otherwise…" The Son said, the tone of his voice growing cold. Roman steeled himself. He had no way of predicting what would set off the Russian madman. The situation was as infuriating to Roman as it was dangerous.

The Son finally lightened his gaze and went back to the bag, patting it affectionately. "I will give you, one of these… every month. Thats your "business" now." The Son said. Roman furrowed his brow. "I am a businessman. I was a club owner, I ran a legitimate business for your father, and laundered millions of his dollars. I'm not a petty drug dealer…" Roman said firmly.

The indignation The Son was showing him was to much, he couldnt hide his contempt for the man much longer. The Son sneered back at him. "You're not a businessman, you're not a man at all. You're a snake." The Son said, meeting Roman's indignant look with one of dangerous hostility. Roman didnt relent this time. He glared back at The Son as he finished his tirade.

"Just because I wasnt running the show when my father was alive, doesnt mean I wasn't paying attention. You threw anyone who got in your way under the bus, and you didnt even have the guts to look them in the eye when you did it. You always had someone else cut their throats." Roman racked his mind.

The Son was not wrong. He had several people killed to keep business running smoothly. When some incompetent goon was given a piece of the pie he could hardly manage, he was more then happy to relieve them of their responsibilities, after relieving them of their lives of course. Roman considered such actions a service to the family. Taking the potential profit from those who would squander it, and instead have the racket grow under his management.

He just didnt know what throat he had slit that was important enough for the Russian tyrant to throw it back in his face like this. "So if you want to get back to owning clubs and washing money… go back to the streets where you came from and prove yourself." The Son said with a final sneer.

To add insult to injury, The Son kicked the bag full of pills from the table, unto the floor in front of Roman. Everyone in the room, including the scantily clad cleaning girls, turned to watch Roman to see how he'd react. Even Roman himself wasnt sure what he would do, but in the end, what could he do?

Roman eventually stood up from the sofa, adjusted his black vest, before kneeling down to scoop the bottles of pills into the bag in silence. He could tell The Son was smirking at him, jeering at him, but he didnt look up from the bag. The room was silent as he meticulously placed every bottle into the bag, zipped it closed and took it with him as he walked from the table. As he was about to leave the room, The Son's voice came from behind. "Dont even bother coming back, without a bag full of cash." Roman turned his head slightly, but did not look back at the man. "I won't."

Roman meditated in the back of his black Mercedes-Benz. He felt his eyelids tremble with rage, his hands calmly placed against his lap, beginning to tighten into fists. He centered himself, and tried to push through it. Flashes of The Son's sneering face caused a spike of fury to rise in his chest. He pushed it back down. The challenging look from The Son, the feeling of his aura overwhelming him sent fear down his spine. He let it go. He was bruised, he was insulted, but he was alive, and as long as he still drew breath, he still had moves to make. He felt the familiar ambitions begin to rise within him, replacing the anger and wounded pride with added drive and purpose.

His eyes snapped open and he reached for the car phone in the back of the Benz. He pressed firmly on the large rubber buttons on the back of the phone before placing it to his ear. One of his Russian goons answered. "Yea?" Roman spoke quickly, purposefully. "Gather the men, we have work to do. Have Stefan put the word out on the street, that the Russians are sitting on a mountain of product, and their looking for dealers." "You got it boss, anything else?" Roman's eyes narrowed as he recalled the face of Dio, the hood rat dealing dope in his territory.

"Put some men to watch the car lot where that black bastard shovels his shit. Tell them to stay in the open, I want him to know that their there." Roman waited to let the goon process his instructions. He knew from experience, it was unwise to overestimate the thinking powers of his minions. "Have Viktor bring "The Negotiator" in the van, I'll have need of them both before the week is out." Roman said.

"Um… Viktor is still a no show." The goon said. Roman let out a dissatisfied sigh from his nostrils. "Did you check his mistress's house?" "Yea, she hadn't seen him. Neither did his wife." Roman sighed. His patience for his men waning. It was one thing to have his enforcer disappear into a girlfriends lap for a few days, and another thing entirely to miss a drop he had scheduled. Roman would have need of his right hand man for his plan to get into the drug business.

"Put Dimitri on it then." Roman said, letting his irritation bleed out into his voice. "Consider it done. What do you want me to do with the rest of the men though?" Roman cracked a bitter smirk. "Have them do what their best at. Wait around the club but stay alert. We have a meeting with Dio to attend after all." The goon hesitated before responding. "Um… I forgot, did you ask me to get a meet with Dio?" The goon said, Roman could almost hear the rusty gears in the Russian morons head turn. "No, Dio will come to us."

Roman waited patiently in the back office of "The Landing Strip" a seedy men's club that was the new makeshift hideout for him and his crew. After the Colombians took over his territories in the East, his men chose to feed their vices here. The women were trashy, the booze was watered down, and the buffet wasnt that good, but the men in Roman's employment werent exactly connoisseurs.

Still, he did his best to help improve things from time to time, he did not take over the club, rather the owners acknowledged that they had settled in, and much of their clientèle had ran off to safer clubs to satisfy their addictions. Though the truth of the matter was that the "The Landing Strip" had never been safer. Roman told him men to respect the women and establishment, left men to ensure the dealers dope was safe, the women well tended too. Just their presence alone insured any malcontents with chips on their shoulders, would be best to keep them there. Any patron who didnt get the hint that this was a mob club, and mistreated the women or caused problems for the staff, his men escorted them to the back alley for an "attitude adjustment."

Once, one of his own got drunk and forced himself on one of the girls. Roman wouldnt have cared, if he hadnt instructed his men to behave, so he made an example out of him. Before the owners of the club could gather the courage to bring the attention to him, he already sent the the mobster in question's hand, gift wrapped in a jewelry box, to the dancing girls. Roman felt it was a thoughtful touch.

After that, the owners began running all business decisions and management questions by him. He, for intents and purposes, owned the club, just not legally. The owners still made all of the money as well, but Roman didnt want this establishment for its business, he only wanting a building, where he could conduct his business at any time, and no one would interfere.

The dancing girls, the staff, they were to afraid to say or do anything even if they wanted to. And why would they? Roman had all but improved the environment in every conceivable way. The business was steady, the tips were good, and the clients policed themselves. The owners were making more money, and they had less responsibilities. When Roman told them he was taking over the back office, the owners rarely stepped a foot into the building, but conducted most of the business over the phone.

The owners were also unlikely to talk to the police, after witnessing Roman's "present" to make amends to the dancing girls. They knew the police couldnt save them from Roman If they ever turned rat. While is men grumbled and complained behind his back, that he killed one of their own to make a bunch of strippers happy, it was a decision he was glad he made. His men didnt need to like him, they needed to obey him.

The phone is the back office finally rang. He picked up the receiver and placed it under his ear. "Its Roman." "Yo, you trying to unload your shit on my turf? Nothing gets by in Miami without going through me." Said a loud, obstinate voice on the other end of the line. "Dio." "Ya its me, bitch. You better step off, or I'm going to have to hit you where you live. Dont think I dont know where your commie crew go to get their rocks off. Dont think I dont know you're right there with um now. All it takes is a phone call and your deep six, you feel me?" Dio said.

Roman winced, he knew Dio to be a warm blooded man, but the way he spoke… Roman knew everything he had to know about the man. Roman quickly collected his thoughts before articulating his response. He needed to move this shipment, and it made the most logical sense to go through Dio to do it. He had all the connections, and the dealers, the infrastructure all worked out and running like clockwork, from what Roman was told.

He actually admired how far reaching, and efficient the neanderthal's operation was. "I'm not looking for a turf war." Roman said calmly. "Yea? Sling that shit someplace else or you got one." Dio's said. "I'm not looking to become a drug lord either, I have a new product. Pills that makes coke feel like pop rocks. You want to stay high on your throne? Fine, take this "shit" off my hands, and maker yourself richer." Roman said.

"So thats what this all about. Bring your Ruskie ass, and the shit here to the lot, and Ill take a look. Maybe I'll sell it for you, maybe I wont." Dio said. With that the drug kingpin hung up, leaving Roman with his thoughts. He may have talked up the pills to some degree, having only heard of their potent effects, but from how The Son was rumored to be popping them down like pez, he was sure that the drug kingpin wouldnt be disappointed.

Roman followed the his men in the black van on their way to the meet, in the back of his Mercedes-Ben. He meditated the whole drive there, preparing himself, body and mind for what was about to take place. The van stopped in the front of the shady, used car dealership that Dio used as a front for his operation. Roman knew, from his extensive research on the man, that he had an unusual relationship with its owner, some anarchistic right winger with a love of guns and a hatred for Russians and the US Government. He would make a reluctant ally to be sure, but Roman had no intentions of creating his own infrastructure for a drug dealing business, when someone else had already laid down the groundwork.

When his men in the van felt it was safe, they drove foreword into the lot. The used cars were lined up on all sides around them, as Roman's driver followed them in the Benz. The van turned off to the side and parked, unobstructing Roman's view of drug kingpin for the first time.

Dio stood in the back of the lot with the rest of his men. They wore sports jerseys and tracksuits with white strips and enough gold necklaces, watches and rings to stock a jewelry store. Roman waited for his driver to open the door before he stepped out of the Benz. His driver, and bodyguard, was an, stoic man wearing a black suit and cap, large enough to fit his long, wiry frame.

He moved with a grim etherealness, as he silently stepped aside, giving Roman room to pass, his dull gaze remaining low to avoid eye contact. The rest of his men piled out of the front and back doors of the van, forming a human wall of white suits between him and the gangsters. As he slowly approached, his men parted way for him, letting him walk between them.

Dio wore a red track suit, and baggy jeans that hung far to low for Roman's tastes, exposing his bunched up boxer shorts. Other then the fist sized, gold amulet of a globe hanging on his neck, nothing about the man seemed extraordinary. If it wasnt for the hostility on his face, and the reek of self entitlement that hung around him like cheap perfume, he wouldnt have been able to pick him out as the leader of the group.

Roman walked ahead of his men, who stuck close to the van as were their instructions. He approached the dozen or more gangsters calmly. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw several gangsters crouched in between the rows of cars, with small sub machine guns, Mac 10s, held in their hands. He kept walking, giving off no evidence he saw the potential ambush.

Dio glared at Roman as he calmly approached. "Man, I didnt think your Ruskie ass would show." Dio sneered. Roman remained calm and expressionless as he answered. "I'm a businessman, not a drug dealer. I see a potential to make profit, I'll leave handling of the product to you." Dio smirked at his words. "Bla bla bla. You talk some gay ass shit. Do you have the dope or what?" Dio responded.

The amount of insult he was forced to take was beginning to pile up. He didnt often like to get his hands dirty, but when someone disrespected him, he was honor bound to pay them back in blood. Lately though, Roman kept getting dishonored and each time, he was unable to retaliate. If he didnt get retribution soon, he'd end up taking it out on his men, and with what little power and influence he had left, that wasnt a viable option. Still, he had a plan to follow, so he swallowed his pride, for now.

He pulled a small plastic baggy from his vest pocket, containing six or so brightly colored pill capsules and held it up for Dio to see. He snorted back at Roman in response. "What the hell is that?" Roman smiled ever so slightly. "A taste." Roman replied. Dio walked away from his men, swaggering towards Roman aggressively.

He steeled himself. Even though Dio was a simple brute, brutes were aggressive, and at times, unpredictable. Dio pressed his face uncomfortably close to Roman's. He winced and instinctively leaned back, not wanting to give any excuse for the kingpin's ego to want retribution. After several seconds of feeling him out with his eyes, Dio gave Roman a condescending smirk, looking him up and down once more, before taking a step back.

"A taste huh… where's the rest?" Dio said. "In the van, where's the money?" Dio glanced around Roman, at the black van behind the wall of Russian mobsters. Finally, Dio grimaced and jerked his thumb at his entourage of thugs. One of them pulled out a school back pack full of what Roman assumed to be, stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Roman nodded.

"Try the sample, if you approve, Ill bring the rest of the product." Dio nodded, grinning like a smart ass. "Yea, thats a good idea, yea… but how bout this? You try the product? Whatchu think about that?" Roman's body stiffened, and no sooner than it did, Dio snapped his fingers at him. Two of his thugs grabbed him roughly and jerked him closer to Dio. He heard cursing in Russian in the distance, so he quickly threw a hand out to the side.

"No! Wait! Do not escalate the situation!" Roman said, causing Dio to chortle in response. "Escalate? Yea the only thing escalating is your head from your shoulders if you dont taste this shit." Dio held a pill he had fished out of the baggy between his fingertips. Roman grimaced, gritting his teeth. "Get that shit away from me…" Roman said in a quiet, dangerous tone. Dio glared back at him. "You trying to poison me? Is that your big plan, Russsskie?" Roman shook his head quickly and violently. "No!" He hissed through his teeth.

Dio held the pill up to Roman's face. "Then take this hit." Dio said. Roman's body shuddered, he let his mask of control slip from his face for a brief moment. "Alright…" He finally said. He reached a open hand out, which Dio immediately slapped aside. "Hold is mouth open… now your going to swallow what I give you, bitch." Dio said, smirking with sadistic pleasure in his eyes as he stuffed the pill into Roman's mouth with his fingertips, before crushing his palm against his lips, forcing his filthy hand between his teeth. Roman closed his eyes tightly, as he felt the pill enter his mouth, as he tasted the salt off gang banger's hand.

Roman loathed drugs. His entire life he sought control, over his body, his mind, and of others. Mind altering drugs gave that control away. It unraveled everything Roman clung to so tightly. He swallowed the capsule down, waiting for whatever effects to hit him. Dio watched him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Roman kept his eyes tightly shut, fearing whatever sensation, whatever high, whatever low was about to take him.

Then… he felt good. He opened his eyes. He felt more then good, he felt perfect. Everything was was divine, he was divine. He studied the colorful outfits of the men holding him, the colors were far more vibrant now, then before. The flood of endorphins filled his head and snuffed out the fear he felt before like a candle being struck by a tidal wave. He shouldered the men holding him away roughly, and didnt fear any reprisal. He felt like a superhero, immune to whatever damage they could try to dish out at him.

Dio and his men laughed, pointing and hollering. He realized he probably looked like an idiot, that he was flexing his muscles and looking at then bulge from under his dress shirt with fascination. He closed his eyes and meditated, even intense euphoria was something he could overcome. Dio quickly popped a pill into his own mouth and chewed it. His muscular body tensed, and his veins bulged in his neck as he felt the surge of adrenaline and pleasure hit. "Yea! Thats the shit, thats the high I wanna ride!"

Roman opened his eyes and did his best to ignore the euphoria bursting in his body. "I have ten thousand pills with me." Roman said calmly. Dio shoved Roman back suddenly. "Then go get um, bitch!" Roman glared back at the man with pure contempt, revealing his true emotions for the first time since he arrived. He quickly reeled back his passion and nodded obediently.

He turned around and started walking back to the van. He tried to excude his usual calm, authorative aura, but his hand began opening and closing rapidly without his permission. He clenched it tightly into a fist to keep the anxious tick under his control. "And next time, bring the shit with you, dont waste my time with samples. Acting like some kind of businessman, you aint nothing but an busta." Dio called after him.

Roman stopped. An intense hatred, far more powerful then anything he felt before, washed through him. It took everything in Roman's power, to stop himself from turning back around and throwing himself at Dio, like a drug fueled animal. "Get your shit together Roman… you are above this. You are above him." He said quietly to himself as he continued to walk calmly to his men. "Uh, what was that boss?" One of the white suits said as he approached. "Nothing." He said, raising a finger and making a circular motion in the air, before jerking his thumb back at the gangsters behind him.

He walked passed the van to the back of his car. He needed satisfaction, now more then ever. If it was the drugs influence or his discipline cracking, he didnt care. He needed it. Roman cast his driver an intense look. The tall man instinctively understood, popping the trunk. In the back of the trunk, Roman had placed one of the two treasures he took back from his visit to Japan.

Ever since he was a child, he looked up to the Japanese. They understood how to rule their lives, with discipline and honor, to seek perfection in oneself and in all things. While the Soviet's battered down America's defenses with their military, and poisoned her from within with their organized crime, Japan was attempting to swallow America's economy whole, legally, through business. The Japanese understood that business was war and in war you do whatever it takes, to achieve victory. No matter how much it demands of you, only the limitations of your mind and whatever misguided morality can hold you back from taking what's yours.

While Roman made is way to the trunk of his car, his men had gathered around the van. One of them pressed down the lever to the side door, but door didnt open. The mobster cursed in Russian, before tapping at the window of the van. He waited, while Dimitri shuffled around inside so he could reach the door to unlocking it.

The mobster outside waited for Dimitri to settle himself, before sliding open the side door and stepping aside. Dimitri sat with his back against the other side of the van, with Roman's "Negotiator" mounted on a tripod between his legs. An RPK, a Russian machine gun with a long banana shaped magazine, was one of Roman's favorite tools for bringing business meetings to a close. Dimitri pulled the trigger. An explosion of automatic fire filled the used car lot, as Dimitri waved the barrel back and forth over the mass of gangsters. Dio was one of the first to fall, as the rifle caliber rounds tore through him and his men.

As the used car lot turned into a war zone, Roman calmly lifted trunk, revealing the long, aluminum case held within. He ran his fingers over the smooth metallic surface of the case, before popping the locks and opening the lid. A 14th century Kamakura era katana rested inside. He touched the dark brown, bamboo scabbard respectively, running his fingertips against the rusty red colored corded handle, before drawing the blade with a sudden burst of movement.

In his drug influenced mind, the light catching from the steel of the blade, basked him in a radiant light. The chassis of the luxury car shuddered, sinking down towards the pavement before rising back up, as Roman's ghoul of a bodyguard stepped from the vehicle. The tall stoic slowly reached back into the car, lifting up the center compartment and pulling free a snub nose .357 revolver. Roman briskly walked passed the tall man, who instinctively followed him slowly, letting Roman move on ahead.

When the RPK's banana mag was finally dry, Dimitri shouted so in Russian. The rest of Roman's goons pulled out their pistols or shotguns from the back of the van and began to stalk towards the back of the lot like a pack of hunters looking for survivors. Roman shouted, far more aggressively then he meant to, for them to stop.

"No! They are mine! Mine!" He yelled. Unable to contain the energy in his legs, he dashed through the car lot, leaning foreword with his ancient katana cocked back in a low stance, using the cars as cover to conceal his movements. His bodyguard would shadow him, taking his meticulous time as Roman knew he would. The gang bangers returned fire at his men by the van wildly, relying on reflex and adrenaline to hit their targets, rather then trying to aim or control the bursts of their automatic weapons. Roman's men took cover, though the cone of fire from the remaining bangers was so wide, they might as well of stood out in the open.

The bangers didnt notice the drug fueled mob boss stalking between the cars towards them. His feet moved quickly with purpose, driven by retribution and bloody satisfaction as the hallucinogenic stimulant coursed through his body. He approached his first victim from the side. The banger turned towards the sound of his rapidly approaching feet, so Roman darted between the gap of cars to his left, waiting just out of view.

The banger took a cautious step foreword. From Roman's point of view, only his ring studded hand and the MAC-10 submachine gun was visible. Instead of letting the banger pass in front of him, he stood suddenly, and slashed his ancient blade in a mighty, upward arc. As the blade passed through the banger's wrist, like a hot blade through butter, the droplets of blood seemed to twinkle, sparkle in the light as if banger's severed hand was filled with tiny red diamonds.

The banger blinked, looking down at his severed stump where his hand once was, and screamed. Roman turned to the side, using the momentum of the swing, to turn his back to the disarmed banger, and turn the sword around in his hands, taking the time to admire the brilliant red droplets that spattered from the blade as it turned through the air, before thrusting the sword behind him, into his victims belly.

The bangers screams turned to a low, defeated groan, before Roman savagely ripped the blade from his belly, tearing his stomach open and spilling its contents onto the pavement bellow. He marveled at how his bloodied blade. It was no longer a sword, but a red stained paint brush using the air as its canvas. Hhe relished the sound of his opponent hitting the ground with a satisfying thud.

The window of the car besides him shattered as a dozen bullets riddled it, only a few inches from his head. Roman took a moment to marvel at the thousands of tiny star fires erupting with a brilliant shimmer next to his face as the shattered glass from the window surrounded him.

Roman quickly pulled himself to his senses and ducked, keeping his sword back and low, listening to where his new opponent came from. He heard the quick footsteps of the banger's sneakers against the concrete, as he ran towards Roman, before the sound of automatic fire ripped through the air once more. Roman felt overwhelmed by the noises and vibrations racking through his body as the drug amplified his sensory stimuli. He closed his eyes tightly and focused, he would need to time this next attack perfectly to avoid rushing from cover to early, taking a bullet in the chest, and to late, to remain still as he is flanked from the side.

The loud crack of his drivers .357 rippled through the air, before the banger seemed to trip and fall. The banger's head landed with a wet thud as it slammed into the pavement, near Roman's feet. As Roman looked down, at the bangers wide eyes, frozen in death, he noticed the blood pooling from the head wound where the bullet had entered. He was glad his driver's aim had not deteriorated with age.

He quickly stood up and checked his surroundings. His driver was crouching his massive but gangly frame behind an SUV. One of the bangers heard the loud boom of the .357 and turned his wild firing towards the drivers direction, forcing him to remain in cover. The banger circled the driver, limiting his fire to short bursts, keeping the driver in cover as he flanked him.

Roman saw an opportunity. It was a long shot, there was more then twenty feet in between him and the last banger, and he'd have to leave his cover and be completely exposed. It was an unnecessary risk, his driver had gotten out of situations far more precarious then this, but whether it was the drugs, or the building insults inflicted upon him, he took the risk anyway.

He sprinted from the cover, darting like a rocket towards the banger. The banger heard him, and turned his body, around to face the new threat. Roman felt a thrill he had never experienced before in his life. The mind altering drug was over stimulating enough, but the added terror and excitement of his life hanging in the balance, his survival dependent on how fast the man before him could turn and aim his weapon… it was a thrill like none other.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, he had closed half of the distance between him and the banger, who had already turned to face Roman. In Roman's, drug addled mind, he had plenty of time still to process the mistake he had made, how much time it would take for the banger to steady his aim and send a salvo of bullets into his body. He gritted his teeth and chambered his katana back and holding the tip outward like a spear. He let out a terrifying scream, his eyed filled with hate as the banger raised the submachine gun at his chest. Five feet separated them, as the banger pulled the trigger, his face bunching into an angry scowl. No sooner then he had, his angry scowl blossomed into that of wide eyed terror. The gun was empty, and he was fucked.

Roman thrust the tip of his sword deep into the banger's shoulder, just under his collarbone before twisting the blade, changing the pitch of the banger's tortured screams with every turn. He pulled the blade from the banger, marveling at the beautiful rain of red dribbling onto the pavement, before stepping foreword and swinging the blade in a horizontal slash. The banger's eyes bulged from his head as the blade passed through his neck. A half second later blood erupted from his throat, leaving him to choke and gurgle on it in disbelief.

Roman watched the banger as he sunk to his knees, then collapsed to bleed out into the concrete. He noted how quickly that man's fortune had changed, as quickly as his expressions. A hateful glare, became a sudden look of fear, which gave way to disbelief. Disbelief that it was really happening, that his life was coming to a close. He flicked the blade towards the ground, sending the droplets to collide against the pavement in a beautiful sprinkle of red.

Roman's driver crept from around the Ford Bronco he had taken cover behind. His expressions were subtle, a mild look of surprise, his lips open a centimeter more then they usually hung. It would only be noticeable to Roman, for the his tall bodyguards gaunt face was all but a mask to anyone else. But Roman knew, the driver must have been shocked to see his master take such a risk, and for so little gain.

The rest of his men gathered nearby, looking around for any hidden surprises Roman or Dimitri may have missed. "Looks clear boss… uh good job with that." Dimitri said, glancing down at the body face down on the pavement. Roman took a few meditative breaths before answering, mentally trying to let the euphoria of the drug go, with every exhale of air. "Sometimes, you just need to get your hands dirty." He said, looking up at Dimitri with dangerous glare. Dimitri nodded and broke eye contact. "Yea… well we took out the competition, what now boss?" Before Roman could answer, the front window of the dealership building exploded in a rain of glass shrapnel, and the sudden boom of a shotgun blast rang through their ears. After they had taken cover, and several more shots echoed from the dealership building, Roman turned to Dimitri who had scrambled on the ground near his feet. "We take care of that."

The dealership owner, loaded the shells into his pump action shotgun, cursing every combination of Russian slurs and "ass" he could think of. He had taken cover behind the front counter as he reloaded frantically. He dropped two of the five shells he loaded, his hands trembling from fear. He gritted his teeth. His eyes though filled with rage, were wet and shiny, on the brink of tears. He pumped the action of the shotgun. "Ready or not mother fuckers, here I come!" He screamed, still sitting behind the cover, before standing with a flurry of motion, swinging the shotgun to where the Russians had taken cover in front of the store window.

His eyes widened as he felt the stinging bite of a blade against his throat. "Oh god…" He murmured through quivering lips. Roman stepped from the side, bringing his face close to the trembling man's. "Drop, your, gun." Roman whispered firmly. The owner obeyed, quivering like a frightened child. "You can… can kill me…" The owner said, trying to regain some level of stubborn defiance before Roman ended his life. "Yes, I can." Roman said, pressing the blade tighter against the man's neck. He continued, through spittle filled blubbering. "B-but you'll never make it in this town… they wont work with commies." The owner stammered.

Empty words, from a man who had no leverage. "How sad." Roman had never heard of a junky who prided himself on his patriotism when his supply of drugs ran out. The owner gritted his teeth and waited for Roman to drag the blade across his throat. "You don't like Russians much, do you?" Roman said, knowing full well the statement was redundant. The owner gave Roman an incredulous look that overcame his fearful blubbering. "Y-you really asking me if I like the Kremlin coming in here and forcing your commie bullshit down our throats…? As if our own government wasnt bad enough."

Roman let the man talk, before giving him a severe look. He tensed his arms, pressing the blade tighter against the owner's throat. The moment of bravery passed, and once again the owner trembled, waiting for the killing blow. "The Soviets are no more fit to run this country then the weaklings in Washington." Roman said, surprising the owner. "What you mean? You're one of them…" Roman shook his head at that. "I am Romanian, my driver…" Roman said, gesturing to his ghoulish bodyguard as he leaned in from the shadows. "He is from Norway." The owner flinched and cursed under his breath as he laid eyes on the driver for the first time. "Jesus…"

Roman lifted the owners chin with his blade to get his full attention. "We have no love for governments here. In Russia, we were outcasts. People they could not control like little red pawns… So we came here, where we are free." The owner gritted his teeth, still holding on to his suspicions. "Came here to do what? Make our lives miserable?" Roman smiled at that. "No. To make a whole lot of money… Dio wasn't the brains of the operation, he was the muscle. You, you were the brains…" Roman said, softening his tone and lifting the blade from the owner's neck. "Yea, I was." The owner confirmed. Roman leaned in closer. "Would you like to make some money with us?"

Roman stepped out from his black luxury car, with his ancient katana. He kept his katana with him, on his lap, during the drive, which he now held in his left hand, the blade safely sheathed within its scabbard. As he walked passed his driver who held the door open for him, he gave him a small nod. Though he would never show it, he was grateful that the driver had saved his life. He was proud of him, and the rest of his men, but most of all, he was proud of himself.

It wasnt something just anybody could do. To remove the head of a criminal enterprise and insert yourself, and he did all of that in less then a day. His driver escorted him to the front of the seedy high rise apartment complex where Roman resided. He looked up at the aging, decrepit building, a relic of a time when the area wasnt swallowed up by gangs and junkies.

The building was a good representation of the state of this country. Once standing tall, proud and pretentious, now weathered and corroded. Roman had no pity for the American people, they did this to themselves. The whole United States experiment of freedom and free speech was always going to be their downfall. The United States, for all of its initial accomplishments was always going to be a flash in the pan of history. For a nation to survive, its leaders must rule, and its citizens must obey. All Roman and the rest of his ilk were doing by migrating here, was speeding up the decay they brought onto themselves, with their own weakness. If not Roman, some other crime boss would occupy the penthouse suite of this building.

He walked passed the sleeping doorman, and stepped into the elevator, leaving his driver on the bottom level. He did not need protection in his own home, after all, he had his other Japanese treasure in his penthouse suite. It was just as beautiful and twice as deadly as the prized katana, and it cost him far more, both financially and physically. He stepped from the elevator that stopped on the top floor, into the main hall of the suite. The entryway guarded by a simple doorman, or at least it was supposed to be.

The white suit of the goon he left to guard the front of his penthouse was stained with blood. Roman stopped in his tracks and took in the scene with grim silence. The Russian mobster was sitting against the wall, with his feet straight out. A red lotus flower was placed in his open mouth, giving the illusion it had taken root and grew straight out between his lips.

When he was finished, he walked passed the body, to the hallway that lead to the door to his suite. When he opened the door, his ears were instantly met by the sounds of bamboo flute music, playing from the multi CD player stereo, and the speakers installed throughout the suite.

He closed the door behind him. His apartment was lavishly decorated in Japanese décor with a Zen gong, kabuki masks, bonsai trees, incense burners, filled his pent house apartment, with an entire wall being elaborately painted to depict a red rising sun against a black charcoal drawn field.

He walked into the room giving a sideways glance at the full suit of Samurai armor, before stopping in front of a tall, ornate sword rack, filled with katanas, wakizashi's and tanto's, the sword, short sword and dagger of the samurai. He placed his antique katana back in its place amongst the inferior, but high quality pieces.

He walked into the living room, and gazed upon his most valuable possession. Suki, his woman he had brought from Japan, was practicing her deadly art, swinging her wakizashi's with perfected precision. Her lithe, agile body was accented sensually, by her leather outfit, that was little more then many leather straps tightly squeezing against her. On her face she wore a leather mask of a kitsune, a Japanese spirit fox, that looked more like the mask of a débutante at a masquerade then anything authentic to her homeland. She was beautiful, sensual, and like Roman, sought perfection in all things.

As with most things, the Japanese people understood the relation between man and woman better then western cultures. In Japan, a man conquers, and a woman submits. He spent many a nights, sampling the local cuisine in the brothels, the massage parlors, and his favorite, the sadomasochist clubs. he was a dark and handsome foreigner after all, he had no trouble finding women willing to yield to his will. It was during his tour of flesh, that he discovered the rare treasure that was Suki. She was the mistress of the Black Lotus, a bondage club where the patrons spent their money to live out their fantasies on the working girls, or have it lived out on them if that was their preference.

Suki had offered Roman, any of the girls he desired, but he didnt want them, he wanted her. She had informed him, with a sweetly sinister tone, that she was not on the menu. This only made him want her more. From that point on, the women of Japan, all the women of the world, bored Roman. He was tired of meaningless flings, momentary acts of domination and fantasy fulfillment. Suki would be the ultimate conquest.

She let him know, out of courtesy, that she would not submit to any man, that pursuing her was a lethal mistake, but all he said in response was "You will be mine." in a stern, confident voice, a promise. The look of astonishment blossoming over her face told Roman she admired his dedication. She then proceeded to laugh in his face and asked him to leave. He refused leaving only when the police were called, slipping away just before they arrived.

He followed her to her home each night for a week, telling her "Be mine." as she turned the key to her door. She would scoff, and close the door in his face, but he would just returned to the club, and repeat the cycle the next night. Eventually he broke into her appartment standing before her as she stood in the kitchen, wearing only her nightgown.

She demanded he leave, but he could tell, deep down, she could sense the strength of his will and the depths of his desires. When she paid him back, waking him up in the middle of the knight with a dagger against his throat, all he did was speak one simple phrase. "Be mine." It was then that she finally did submit. It was the most passionate sex Roman had ever had. She clawed, she bit, she struggled for dominance, but he remained in control. The next morning, he told her they would be leaving, to America to carve out his empire. She obeyed. She had been at his side, his lover and confidant ever since.

He watched her preform her sword arts, from behind for a few moments before speaking. "What did I tell you about killing my men?" He asked firmly. She turned to him, letting her curved short swords rest at her sides dramatically. "I was doing you a favor, my love. I tested his loyalty… and found him wanting." She cooed softly.

Roman brought his open hand across her cheek with enough force to stagger her to the floor. She turned back to him, her eyes alight with fury. He caught her arms by the wrists, before she could thrust one of her wakizashi's into his body and held her tightly against himself. She bared her teeth angrily, panting with indignant anger. When it was clear she was not strong enough to squirm from his grasp, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed. She pressed her luscious lips against his, her tongue invading his mouth with wild tenacity. She dropped her wakizashi's, letting them stab into the wood floor and wrapped her legs against Roman's waist, as he lifted her up to bring into his bedroom.

Roman laid back on his bed, as Suki ran her fingers against the tattoos on his chest. She watched him carefully, her mask, as well as her leather outfit had been cast aside somewhere across the penthouse. He stared straight ahead, sullenly. "Whats wrong, my love? I couldnt feel your heart next to mine..." Suki said softly. Roman groaned in annoyance. "It's not my heart, where I want your attentions to lie…" He grumbled. Suki smiled slyly and rested her chin on his shoulder, letting her fingers drag against his stomach. "Tell me…" She whispered.

Roman stared ahead for awhile before finally answering. "I had him, within swords reach…" He said. Suki's hand stopped. "You challenged him to a duel?" Roman shook his head ever so slightly. "He challenged me… but I couldnt do it. His henchman was in the room…" He said, his voice trailing off. "And…?" Suki said. Roman sighed before answering. "I felt him, while we were locking eyes, while he challenged me…" Roman said in a low voice.

"His aura?" Suki asked. Roman nodded. "His presence was overwhelming. His thirst for conquest and violence is unlike anything I've ever seen…" Roman said with a grimace. Suki turned his head to face him, planting a wet kiss against his lips. Roman returned her kiss, groaning against her skillful tongue, before he felt her teeth sink into his bottom lip. The taste of copper filled his mouth, and he tore her from his face, rolling over the top of her and pinning her wrists to her sides. He glared down at her, as she smirked up at him.

"Where is the proud conqueror now?" She cooed. Roman clenched his teeth together in anger as she laughed. "Where is the man worthy of my devotion? Are you going to stew on your failures and let him unman you?" She taunted. "No." Roman hissed through his teeth. "What are you going to do then?" Roman's eyes turned cold. "I will bide my time, build my empire…" Suki nodded. "Yes… then?" "Then… I will bury him along with anyone who stands in my way… I will own this city, and nothing will stop me…" Roman said, he could feel the fire burning in his chest as the words escaped his lips.

Suki leaned up to Roman and locked her lips against his. As their bodies once again entwined in passion, he could feel the flames in his chest begin to diminish. At one time, Suki was the one that cradled his flame. Now, it was this city, it was Miami. Miami would be the ultimate conquest.