Page 51 of The Agreement

Maxim smiled and nodded, satisfied. “And I’m sure you don’t need the reminder that you’re not here to make friends either, only money.”

“I’m just here to pay my dues.”

“Exactly. The day you stop being useful is the day you pay us some other way. Keep it in mind, young man.”

The friendly, fatherly tone that Maxim usually spoke to him with was gone. Fast. The one in its place was that of a ruthless pakhan—the boss. His seat had to be unquestioned; his authority would be crystal clear to everyone.

“I understand my position here,” he reiterated to Maxim.

He didn’t get a reply before the boss walked away.

Frankly, Roman didn’t really need one.

TEN

The relatively pleasant summer gave way to the wet weeks of end-July. Which only meant one unfortunate fucking thing—Chicago had started to remind Roman of New York. It was humid and messy, coloring the days gray and making him nostalgic for home in a way he hadn’t expected.

Given the fact that he didn’t know when he might be back in New York again, he should have been glad to be reminded of home. Hell, he might have been if today wasn’t such a crucial day.

Pacing up and down the warehouse, Roman debated whether to call Josef, and ask the man to join him inside. Even though Josef hadn’t explicitly admitted it, he waited outside in his car, watching and noting Roman’s every movement. Today was definitely the kind of day he could use some company—even if it was from a Yazov man who was being paid to spy on him, if only to keep him from talking himself crazy inside his head.

But he didn’t call.

He planned to keep as few people involved with his business in Chicago as was possible while he was forced to be here to work. Back home, he at least had a bit of a leg up where officials and cops were concerned—or he used to.

Here, though?

Here, he had shit.

Nothing.

He had to be careful. In every single aspect.

Still pacing along the bay doors inside the warehouse, Roman waited for part of the crew to return, driving the three, million-dollar cars they were supposed to hit.

The preparation and planning came together as the deadline loomed to the point where it was a now-or-never type of deal. He put together a team of people made up mostly of his old crew from back in New York, and a few new recruits directly from Chicago who came highly recommended in the car boosting scene from contacts he had in the business.

No fucking lie—Roman’s standards were high. They kind of had to be, though. He didn’t really have the time to mess around with people who needed him to hold their hand through how to follow an order, and definitely not with someone who didn’t know what to do with a wrench. The plan needed to be executed with perfection and precision. Roman was kind of banking his life on it. Literally. Considering he knew his whole future in Chicago and with the Yazovs depended on it.

Behind him—while he continued focusing on the forty steps it took him to cross from one door to the third at the other end—were neatly arranged portable car jacks, boxes of tools, and all other equipment they needed to breakdown the cars once they arrived. Part of the procedure was also to ensure everything was set up in such a way that it could all be packed and cleared out in under ten minutes if necessary.

Roman had learned the hard way, through past experiences, that he needed to make sure nothing could be traced back to them. It was possible that they may not even have those ten minutes to pack everything up. Every precaution was taken to ensure no serial number could be traced back to him or the bratva.

This wasn’t Brighton Beach.

The Yazovs would gladly throw him under the bus if they got busted, and step back while he landed his ass in prison.

Three luxury vehicles his crew had targeted today—each worth over a million dollars—would sell for triple that amount in auctions overseas. Roman also had a long list of contacts who would be able to get him in touch with exactly the people interested in the particular makes of cars he would have chopped up and ready to ship before the sun broke over the morning horizon.

Once Roman had the cars in his possession, moving them and selling them wouldn’t be a problem. That was the least of his concerns. The crew just needed to do their job, arrive safe and sound, and things had gone according to plan.

If they didn’t, he would have heard something by now from one of his people. It was relatively safe to say Roman could breathe easy—knowing the time on the clock across the warehouse assured him it was so—but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself just yet.

There weren’t too many perks of being fresh-faced in Chicago, honestly. Either way, he appreciated the ones that were sparsely available. One being that nobody knew him here, and no chop shop gig had been executed in a similar fashion in the recent past. Both things worked to his favor at the moment.

So, technically, the world was his oyster.

He didn’t have to worry about watching his back too much, at least not for the moment ... where the police were concerned. Nobody was here watching him expecting him to be doing what he was because his presence wasn’t a big thing in the area. He had the upper hand of taking the scene by surprise. Once the same cars were repeatedly stolen, once a pattern was established—the job would get tougher. He, and the team, would have to work a different game. One similar to the tricks they pulled back home.