Page 18 of The Agreement

Don’t let people find the parts of you that react—or the things you’ll react for. They’ll always hit you where you’re weak.

Those were Anton’s words, so for his grandfather to make time to visit him here, alongside his outburst, it didn’t mean anything good. Self-control was sometimes a very fickle thing for Avdonin men.

Roman was not the exception.

“I am fine,” Roman assured, his throat dry. “I just need a few days.”

“Your eyes look like they’re bleeding.”

“Do you want to sleep in this fucking joint, or ...?”

“You’re shaking. Has the puking started yet—the shits, maybe? God knows that steel toilet is going to be a lot harsher to sweat this round through than the cushioned seat in your bathroom at the loft, hmm?”

Right for the gut.

Like only his grandpapa could do.

Roman breathed through the pounding in his skull and vomit bubbling in his stomach, choosing his words carefully and letting them out slower than he cared to admit. “I’ll survive it. This is nothing. I’ve been through worse.”

“And yet, you keep insisting you don’t have a problem. Look at you.”

“My problem is that all of you expect me to be like—” Roman jammed his teeth together, forcing the words back down so he could mutter, “I know it’s bad.”

Anton raked a hand through his hair, staring at Roman with a blue gaze that matched his own. He hated the pity he found there when his grandfather looked him up and down once more. “Your hubris, my boy. How does it feel to arrive?”

“I—”

“You’ll have a reckoning for this. You’ll answer for it; you’ll sacrifice more than you want.”

Death, maybe?

If so ...

“I’ll welcome it with open fucking arms.”

At this point, what else did he have to lose? Their very conversation and the way it unfolded told Roman everything he needed to know. Anton’s chiding click spoke of his disapproval without him needing to voice it in another way, yet again.

Roman didn’t expect anything different.

What had he ever done to make him proud? He wasn’t Demyan. The perfect son. The perfect husband. He wasn’t always in control; constantly the unwavering pillar in the storm that was their life. He enjoyed the chaos more than he should, and he didn’t know how to stop doing that.

Anton had every reason to be proud of the man he had raised, while Roman was a whole other story.

“I don’t think you understand,” Anton warned, stepping closer to Roman once more.

“I think I understand you perfectly well, actually.”

Roman swallowed the lump forming in his throat, refusing to dig deeper into the emotions slicing at his surface. Instead, he stared into the eyes of a man he had grown up admiring. One he knew he would never be able to become—so he hadn’t even ever bothered to try. Not a single man who knew Anton could disrespect him, not if they truly sat down and allowed him five minutes to speak. He was that kind of man.

That was his legacy, and here was his grandson.

A car thief.

... with a drug problem.

What else was there to say?

“I’m sure you have some idea what this has done to your father,” Anton said after a moment.