Page 16 of The Agreement

One more.

He might be able to breathe through it. A few more minutes, and the shaking would hopefully stop. His skin was glazed, damp with sweat. The sweat seeped through the faded buzz of his black hair—greasy to the touch. That was the least of Roman’s problems.

He wasn’t sure if his last name afforded him a bit of dignity and respect from the officers in the jail, but the guards hadn’t forced him to leave for a shower. Or shit, maybe it was the opposite, and somebody was teaching him a lesson.

Fine.

It was well-learned.

The turning of a key in his cell door had Roman jumping up to sit on the edge of the bed. Bad move. He rocked himself back and forth, uncaring and not knowing who watched him from the door because that was the only way to keep himself from hurling his stomach contents on the floor.

Then, he looked up.

Fuck.

Through swimming vision, his grandfather, Anton, watched him from where he stood in the open passageway, slapping one of the guards on his shoulder. He even had a fucking smile on his face as he stepped into his grandson’s cell.

Roman should have known.

Visitation rules didn’t apply to the Avdonins.

Money talked.

Bullshit walked.

Anton was brought directly here. Despite the shaking and convulsing, it was instinctual for Roman to stand up. The respect of the matter, because his grandfather was in the room, and nothing more. Something he had done from the time he was a boy, and despite being a twenty-seven-year-old man in a bit of a messy situation, it bore no effect on the respect he offered to Anton.

That, and a little bit of love.

Love made him stand, too.

In his seventies, one wouldn’t think that looking at his grandfather, Anton wore the age badly. In fact, he carried it quite well. Deep lines in his face and the gray that colored his jet-black hair gave his severe nature a bit more wisdom and color. He was feared by many, but growing up under his grandfather’s feet taught Roman one important thing about the man.

He was still just that.

A man.

“Roman, you look like shit, yeah,” Anton said when the guard stepped away from the cell, and out of his sight entirely. “Sit down, my boy.”

At least, he didn’t look worried.

That was a win.

Roman would take what he could get.

And then his grandfather had to go and say, “Well done—you’ve thoroughly terrified your mother.”

“Kick me when I’m down, Grandpapa.”

That’s how it was done.

Anton only shrugged.

Roman couldn’t stand the silence. “What are you doing here?”

He sat back down, but not because his grandfather suggested it or because he really wanted to. His knees were already giving up on him, and the floor had started to spin.

Goddammit.