Page 17 of The Agreement

“I’m admiring the scenery,” Anton said, a dark chuckle echoing with his words. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”

Roman let out a grunt that tasted like bile. “Okay, why are you here?”

“Can’t a grandfather visit his grandson in jail?”

“Not if he’s Anton Avdonin.” Roman tipped his head to the side, meeting his grandfather’s gaze as he uttered through chattering teeth, “We stay the fuck away from cops, always. A guy goes in, we work to get him out, but we don’t fucking touch him until he is. That’s what you always told me.”

And his father. Any bratva man that cared enough to teach Roman about their life. All of them. He knew how this worked. He expected nothing different for him because he was who he was.

So ...

“Why are you here?” he asked again.

His grandfather moved to stand against the wall, arms crossed over his wide chest. Like Demyan, Anton had that ability to scrutinize him and read him easily. Old souls, they had muttered between each other from the time Roman could remember. His father said they were all the same, just a little different. Anton never denied it.

Roman wondered how.

He had yet to figure it out.

“Are you going to ask me how they are?” Anton murmured instead of answering his grandson’s question.

Stay out of my fucking head, he thought.

Still holding onto that stupid pride, Roman replied, “I’m going to ask you what they’re saying about me, yeah.”

Anton sighed deeply, shaking his head. It should have bothered Roman more that he was becoming accustomed to the look of disappointment on his family’s faces. They thought he was out of control.

Hell.

They weren’t wrong.

“Your mother worries, anyway, but this—”

“She has nothing to worry about,” Roman snapped, refusing to let his grandfather even go there.

He wasn’t doing this. And certainly not here—in a jail cell with a guard that was probably still close enough to overhear their private conversation. He stood up too quickly, making his legs turn to jelly. For a few minutes, he’d almost managed to forget that his body was revolting against his mind.

A war raged inside him.

Could his grandfather see it?

“No, you’re right, Roman. Why would your mother worry—you’re perfectly fine.”

The sharp edge to Anton’s voice was the only thing that kept his grandson from thinking he was speaking to himself. “You’re in withdrawal.”

A laugh escaped Roman’s lips, and he rubbed his hand over his nose—a habit he hated. “I’m in prison. I’m bored. I was so close—that car would have pulled in three mil, easy.”

The harder Roman tried to brush his current condition off, the darker Anton’s face got.

“Listen to yourself.”

“Grandpapa, just—”

“You’re in denial.”

Anton rarely yelled, and he certainly wasn’t in the habit of raising his voice in public. But for a brief moment, he dropped the facade when his words snapped louder and felt like whips cracking down on a stoic Roman.

Never lose control, Roman.