Page 2 of The Agreement

“I could help with that.”

The offer made Demyan still in his chair. He didn’t glance his friend’s way, but as his mind mulled over the offer—and implications—he already knew his answer. He didn’t really need to think about it.

His love was loyalty.

It would always be his weakness.

“I’m not interested in setting up my son to get him under control, old friend,” Demyan murmured, reaching for the glass of vodka on the table between them.”

“Well, that’s the best part,” Maxim replied, striking a bemused grin. “Nobody said you had to do a fucking thing.”

Demyan sipped his drink, and said nothing—he didn’t agree, or otherwise.

Well, he thought, so be it.

ONE

Roman Avdonin had never learned when enough was enough, and he blamed it on the fact that no one thought to step in and teach him. That was undoubtedly why his father’s men didn’t bat an eye at the Bratva Prince of Brighton Beach stepping outside the Pakhan’s three-story colonial estate to nab a baggie of ivory powder from his best friend.

Marky Thompson—the right-hand man to Roman’s car theft and chop shop scheme—held his drug of choice out the driver’s window of his pearl black Ferrari without concern for who watched. All it took was one look at Marky’s shifting gaze for him to know the man’s true feelings on being called in to deliver Roman’s drugs on a day like today.

“I know how you don’t like being told what to do...” Marky started, tilting his head out of the window a little more.

“Then don’t.”

Roman snatched the baggie, encompassing it in his palm and slipping it into the pocket of his grey jeans. He didn’t look over his shoulder or at the bulls walking around the estate. The bratva enforcers had their eye on everything. They saw everything. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide it. They knew who he was. Everyone knew who the fuck he was. Maybe a man different from Roman, would have felt a sense of responsibility given the circumstances of the day. Maybe even some shame.

Not Roman.

He didn’t give a single flying fuck, and he was pretty sure his family didn’t, either.

“Well, I’m just trying to make a suggestion, man,” Marky continued.

Roman grinned—it took the edge of the irritation already starting to simmer below the surface of his constantly short fuse—but only because he knew what was coming. This was one of the things he hated most about this place. About his world—this life. Everyone was so damn predictable. He waited a few beats, knowing Marky would continue speaking, but he wasn’t about to jump in and encourage his friend to go ahead and get told to fuck off faster than the guy wanted to.

His prerogative, and all.

“Maybe today is not the day to piss off your papa.”

Right.

Was there ever a day for that?

Shit, Roman had been making that a daily occurrence since his ass hit puberty. Here he was, a grown ass man, and not much changed. He’d stopped worrying how Demyan Avdonin would feel when it became apparent that the disappointment of others didn’t do very much to or for him except cause him unneeded shame.

Giving Marky a shrug, Roman said, “Listen, everyone around here is acting like the world is going to crash down on us just because some middle-aged men from Chicago are showing up in town.”

Marky drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked past Roman’s shoulder to the bulls leaning against the estate’s gates. “They are more than just some middle-aged men. Even you know better than that, Prince.”

Nice, Roman thought. The emphasis on the prince—as if he needed a reminder about the men he came from when he stood where he did—felt like a joke that didn’t quite land.

“Roll your eyes and you might just start sounding like a fifteen-year-old girl.”

Marky snickered at that, and Roman finally looked back over his shoulder at the men still lingering too near for his tastes. Two of them, the ones standing closest to the gate, looked quickly away when his stare met theirs, and Roman got the feeling that they were talking about him.

Why wouldn’t they?

He had a pretty good idea of what they thought of him. The only son of a formidable, long-standing Bratva Pakhan. A brat from the moment he was born. Destined to have more control and power in their chosen life than them from the second he was conceived. The Prince of Brighton Beach. Little Odessa’s Devil.