Page 26 of The Agreement

Standing side by side, the two smoked their cigarettes, Roman eyed the different rings that had been tattooed to the man’s fingers; an interesting take on a spider had been added to peek out of his sleeve at his wrist, too. He hadn’t realized how different it would be to work with men who were more traditional in a sense when it came to the Russian mob. It took him very little time in Chicago to realize his lack of decoration—by way of tattoos he should have earned over his life as a vor—was simply something that would cause suspicion for men who didn’t know him upon sight.

Josef was the only one brave enough to point it out.

He and Josef surveyed the workers in construction hats milling around the building in silence. It was a way they had found to start the day that didn’t include too much conversation usually.

Fun.

In the two weeks since he first landed in Chicago, there weren’t a lot of things Roman found he liked about the city. He wasn’t a real look-on-the-brightside type, either. He didn’t care to look for silver linings just to make his current existence better. However, he did have his own setup here getting off the ground, and even though he was well aware of the Yazov eyes constantly watching him, for the most part, they left him alone.

Except for Josef.

The bull assigned to him by Maxim Yazov didn’t fool Roman for a second. His job there wasn’t purely for protection. Josef wouldn’t have hesitated to pump a few bullets into him, and deliver him dead to the Yazov Bratva if that was his order.

Shit.

Maybe someday it would be.

For the moment, though, he shared a conversation with Josef like any guys working together would. What other choice did Roman have? It wasn’t like he knew anyone else in the city. And he couldn’t say he was keen on changing that, either.

Now that he was starting to kick things off with the chop shop, he’d already planned to bring in some of the crew from New York. The men who had worked with him for years while he built his business were as crucial to its success as his own instincts. They knew what to do, and how Roman liked to run the show.

Which was the only thing that mattered.

His circus—his fucking monkeys.

“So you literally chop the cars down, yeah?” Josef asked.

He was sucking in his cheeks to draw in a long drag of the cigarette, pulling the smoke straight into his lungs, and then releasing the gray cloud in curls around his face. The smoke almost formed a halo, making Roman grin because there was nothing holy about this man. Nothing holy about any of them.

“Yeah, it’s way easier to ship parts of a car than the whole fucking thing. Gets through ports faster, too. They never know what the fuck they’re looking at, you know? The guys I work with overseas—they put it all back together,” Roman explained.

Josef nodded his head along like the fog was finally clearing, and things were beginning to make sense to him. “And these contacts, you trust them?”

“Never had a reason not to. I’ve been fucked over in the past, and it took me a long time to build a trustworthy team of guys I work with, in New York and overseas. I mean, we are who we are—gotta be real, man. It still comes down to a goddamn word. A man’s word still counts for something here.”

“They said you did it yourself, I heard.”

Roman’s lips twitched with an urge to smirk, but he held it back. Barely. The whispers about him and his business—and the reason why he found himself in Chicago—were already making the rounds, it seemed. It was even getting back to him.

That was fast.

“My father trafficks guns—I did better with cars,” Roman offered with a shrug. “It’s not really the same kind of business, if you know what I mean.”

Josef pursed his lips, impressed, sending Roman’s thoughts into a tizzy while he tried to figure out if this conversation was even genuine. Ever since that meeting between the bratvas—the day he tried to steal Dima’s Bugatti—he felt like everyone around him was screwing him over. Or he was paranoid enough to think it might be happening.

Including his own father.

Roman was now beginning to understand why his grandfather had always told him that he should never trust anybody. Least of all, the guy who shaved his beard.

Think about it, Roman, if a man was untouchable—bulletproof—who would you pay to do the deed on an unkillable man? Then, Anton would grin and add, His barber, of course.

Just because Josef engaged him in a chat didn’t mean they were suddenly friends. He was still a Yazov bull, and Roman was just the Avdonin Prince who had been chopped down and shipped to Chicago to pay his dues. Just like the cars that had brought him here in the first place.

Not a single day went by that he wasn’t reminded he was walking a tightrope. The only reason he was here was to make money for the Yazovs, another check and balance that he wouldn’t be free and out of prison if it wasn’t for the friendship between Maxim and Demyan. They would have left him in there for as long as it took the Avdonins to get him out while Maxim’s people kept pulling their goddamn strings.

All he was expected to do now was to stay out of trouble, keep his head down and set up the chop shop scene in Illinois. Once that was done, and Maxim was sufficiently satisfied, he would be able to return to New York. Roman didn’t know if this would also redeem him in his father’s eyes, but he also couldn’t say he cared. It wasn’t exactly a puzzle—this had worked out perfectly for both Maxim and Demyan. His father believed his son needed to be taught a lesson that forced him out of New York, and away from his privilege.

Away from bad influences, his familiar streets, and the power he could so easily extend because of who he was.