Page 4 of The Agreement

Inside the house, the soles of his shoes squeaked on the polished marble floors. His mother was particular about a lot of things. Whose shoes went where, who could be in the kitchen when she cooked ... cleaning.

She liked the house maintained just-so—no fingerprints on any glass, no dust dancing in streams of sunlight, and certainly no dirty shoes on her floor. She dared to tell him that would change only when she was given grandchildren to spoil.

Another thing he doubted.

She just wanted grandbabies.

He glanced at the clock on the wall in the grand foyer, taking note of the time. Hanging down along the massive, winding staircase, the crystal chandelier swung gently like someone had just been dusting it. One of the maids probably did while he was outside, but the staff in the mansion were as smart as the men who watched it outside. They stayed out of the Avdonin family’s way.

Especially his.

Demyan was late to start his day. Still in bed, no doubt. Roman took the spiral stairs up to the second floor with silent steps, two a stride. His father was free to take as much time as he wanted. It allowed him a chance to put the baggie to good use without yet another lecture about his private activities.

In his childhood bedroom, he shut and locked the door. Not that anyone would enter without knocking or asking his permission. Not much had changed about the space that he had officially moved out of ten years ago, shortly after he turned seventeen.

There was a glass-topped night table on the left side of the four-poster, king-size bed, and he was going to put that to good use, too. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he emptied the baggie on the table, and then spent a few seconds looking for the credit card he wanted from his wallet.

What would this day look like if he didn’t do what he was about to?

He really didn’t care to find out.

• • •

Everyone looked twitchy, Roman thought, with their eyes darting everywhere.

On high alert.

Two bulls in the front, while his father sat in the row behind him. He watched familiar streets pass by the dark-tinted windows of their Mercedes SUV. The muscle behind the wheel, and the one in the front passenger seat kept their eyes focused outside to monitor every car and passerby to find the danger they were sure was there.

Total bullshit.

Roman could have laughed at their paranoia, but someone wouldn’t appreciate that. Except his lack of concern as they drove through the city wasn’t escaping Demyan’s notice while the man chatted on the phone with his own father.

Why the fucking eggshells?

Cocaine certainly had a way of making Roman think he was bulletproof, but he still figured they were making a bigger thing out of this whole day than it needed to be. Had his father ever been chill in his life? Demyan’s voice droned on in the background of Roman’s thoughts, the mention of his grandfather’s name, Anton, almost making him tune into the private conversation.

If there was anyone in the world Roman couldn’t say no to—one person whose word might count when spoken—it was his grandfather. But even the prospect of joining the conversation wasn’t enough to drag him from his annoyance at the day.

What was the big deal?

Well, he knew.

Three bratvas—New York, Jersey, and Chicago—coming together to discuss business was enough to put an entire city on edge given the right circumstances. Usually bloody ones. This wasn’t supposed to be like that, though. Their business had managed to exist independent of each other for decades other than the mutual work between the Avdonin Bratva in New York, and the Vasin organization in Jersey—proximity sometimes worked to their benefit. A marriage between the two families helped that shit out, as well.

Chicago wasn’t quite the same. They minded their own business, and rarely ever stepped on the toes of anyone outside of Illinois. However, for the first time in more years than he could remember, the Yazovs wanted to meet with them.

New York, specifically. Then they had to go and ask for the Vasin Bratva to get in on the chat, too. That was when Roman’s father started to get serious about how he wanted to ensure safety while their visitors were in town—especially since the Yazov organization made it clear they weren’t discussing anything unless it was face to face.

Nothing good came from demands.

Men like them were also careful by nature.

So to speak.

The sound of his father calling his name—short and low—snapped Roman out of his thoughts. The phone call with his grandfather had come to an end it seemed.

“You could stop ...” Demyan trailed off, glancing him over before adding, “Well, the twitchiness. Add that to the way your pupils look, and it’s a dead giveaway.”