Page 40 of The Agreement

Was that why he was called here?

Roman could think of a million better things to do. Like spooning out his testicles with a rusty spork on a busy highway. Literally anything would be better than this.

Dima puffed on his cigar more, unconcerned with the heady clouds he sent Roman’s way. All the while, he remained standing, unmoved by the subtle aggression.

“Okay, well, I wasn’t fucking asking,” Maxim said.

A narrowed gaze accompanied the growled order. The inflection and intent was clear: do as you are told.

“What do you want us to do?” Dima asked.

“Have a drink together, no? Now, even.” Maxim’s thin patience was on clear display as he waved his hand between the two. Dima had to know it as well as Roman that defying a bratva boss could have extreme consequences for them both. “Well?”

That last word was all it took.

Dima was the first to make a move. A tray on the desk carried a crystal decanter and matching glasses with gold bottoms. He poured the vodka out of the decanter into two glasses, and finally turned to offer one to Roman.

No smile.

Not even here, asshole.

When Roman didn’t make a move to accept the drink, Maxim spoke up again.

“Maybe a part of your experience here can be ... growing the fuck up,” the boss told him with little inflection to his tone, and not an ounce of sympathy for the choice Roman was forced to make. He didn’t want to make nice with Dima; he wouldn’t piss on him to put him out if he was on fire. Too bad he wasn’t, really. Maxim continued on saying, “You’re here to pay off what you owe us in kind, and Dima has better things to do than hold a grudge. So, do act like a pair of grown men, get on with it, and drink.”

On the verge of turning on his heels and walking straight out of there, Roman only hesitated to consider his options. This wasn’t a part of the fucking deal. He wasn’t told he’d have to make nice with Dima in order to live and work here.

And yet ...

He took the glass because he was on Yazov territory. He had no Avdonin support or protection around him. The only reason why he was still alive and considered a usable asset in Chicago was because he was keeping himself out of trouble, combined with his last name. He needed to down the drink, and move the fuck on.

Suck it up, so to speak.

The vodka traveled smoothly down Roman’s throat, and Dima gave him one last glare before looking away when he handed the glass back over, turned upside down, and empty.

“There you two are—a proper do-over, no? You’ll meet some of my brigadiers later tonight over dinner, Roman,” Maxim continued. “I expect the same kind of behavior at my dinner table. Is that understood?”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, here, in my house. Stick around, get to know the lay of my land, as they say. If you’re going to be working for me, you will have to know how I like things to be done around here. The same as everyone else.”

Maxim tapped his cigar against a crystal ashtray as he finished speaking. This was the first Roman had heard anything about a dinner. He didn’t want to be included in any Yazov meetings, and had little to no use for the brigadiers in regards to his own side of business. He had every intention of working at the chop shop alone, other than his hand picked crew, just like he did back home.

What was he even supposed to do around the estate until dinner?

Play with my nuts?

Coke was still a no-go, too. So that was out of the question, and it was looking like he was going to have to suffer the formalities of the Yazov Bratva simply because he didn’t have any excuse worthy enough to get out of it.

Fun.

Maxim continued staring at him, clearly waiting for the only acceptable response that he expected to come from Roman. One that he wanted to come without question.

And it did.

Unfortunately.

“It would be my pleasure,” Roman said.