Page 24 of The Agreement

His father was trying to sell him this plan, having worked it out in advance with Maxim before Roman’s arrival. No doubt. Another fucking setup. So this was how his father was spending his time while he was left to tough-it-out in jail.

Another teachable moment.

As if it had ever worked before.

“And in return you’ll gain access to some of our trafficking routes, Demyan. I’ll make sure it is worth your while. We can have our spies work that out between themselves, no?”

Demyan tipped his head once, saying only, “Works for me.”

Wait ...

“You can’t just demand I—”

“And how long do you think this will last?” Demyan asked, interjecting before his son could get a decent word in edgewise. “Roman in Chicago, I mean. For his mother’s peace of mind, give me an estimate.”

Demyan was asking all the questions for him, as if this was a regular job interview or some shit. Except there was nothing regular about this, and it wasn’t just any job. It was repayment. A lesson being taught to a truant son.

Roman saw through all of it. All the terms and conditions had been discussed before he had even stepped out of the jailhouse, he was sure. He wasn’t going to get a say here—that much was clear.

“For as long as it takes,” Maxim replied, offering a wave of two fingers in Roman’s direction. “And so, I suppose it really comes down to him, no? And how dedicated he is to making it work.”

Roman said nothing.

What was the point?

That didn’t seem to bother his father.

“This will be good for us all,” Demyan added.

“For whom?”

Roman’s sharp words—the only ones he could manage without saying something he might seriously regret—went unheard by the men.

“New things are on the horizon, Roman. Good things, maybe. A challenge, a new environment ... friends to make, even?” Maxim offered him that as if it was something he might enjoy. “It’s not a bad way to spend a year or two.”

“Or longer.” Demyan steepled his fingers under his chin, saying more, “This is the only way we can make the legal issues go away currently—the Yazovs will handle that as long as you do what you need to for them. Quite a big pile of legal shit that you have got yourself into, considering.”

“I didn’t ask for help to get out of it. I have managed to single-handedly get out of every other pile of shit just fine,” Roman snapped back.

“Have you ever faced something like this before? You’re looking at eight or more years in prison,” Maxim interjected. It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep himself from pouncing at the man. “And that’s if I tell my legal side of things to back off on applying pressure to the police I have in my pocket. If they keep digging beyond the hole you’ve already dug for yourself ... Roman, it only gets worse from here, I assure you.”

Then, Maxim smirked wickedly. “But move to Chicago for a few years and all this goes away, yes? See, simple. And I can make it happen.”

Now it was a few years?

Right.

He knew better than to ask for options.

There weren’t any.

His feet moved in the direction of the door before he truly comprehended what he was even doing, the heaviness of disbelief still thick enough to keep him quiet for the moment. One didn’t just walk out of a room where two pakhans were in conversation. He should have waited to be dismissed, but what were they going to do—shoot him? By the sounds of it, Maxim needed him.

Demyan had long ago given up trying to educate his son in the proper displays of respect when it came to better men. And still, his father’s angry, dark shout hit his back as he retreated from the room. “Roman!”

He let the door bang hard enough to echo on his way out. It was only the sight of his mother, standing at the end of the corridor, that made him pause long enough to subdue the sudden urge to trash the entire hallway.

“Can we talk?” she asked, the high pitch of her tone making him wince.