Page 52 of The Agreement

For now, it was all cake.

With a cherry on top.

A shitload of money for three neatly packed vehicles that would be every collector’s dream. And it didn’t take them very much effort to nab the cars, either. It wasn’t just about having the right plan. Roman also needed to find the right team—to create the perfect combination of muscle and brain.

He achieved that task by building a crew of hackers, booster specialists, mechanics, and connected people who wouldn’t shy away from a high-stakes chase ... should it come to that.

Not only did the heist have to be executed perfectly, but the cars would then have to be dismantled and hacked in a way that would make transportation easier with minimal—if any—damage. Then, there was the process of putting everything back together, so one had to make sure the team it was delivered to overseas had a decent reputation for doing what they did. The last thing collectors wanted to see on their cars was wear and tear, or even any minor imperfections. They didn’t want to see a hint of the journey their prized possessions had undertaken to reach them. The more damage there was to fix, the less a car made when delivered and auctioned.

All in all, Roman had a good feeling about the job. He looked at the clock again, and then double-checked the time he knew was right with what it showed on his watch, the diamond bezel on the Rolex winking under the warehouse’s bare bulbs overhead.

Ten more minutes, and the crew would be arriving at the warehouse. So, when the phone in his back pocket rang, Roman about jumped out of his skin.

A low fuck fell from his mouth after he’d fished the phone out, and checked the screen to see his father’s number flashing.

Perfect timing.

Roman had a hundred reasons not to answer the call, starting with the fact he wasn’t in the mood to talk with Demyan and ending with his current situation. But because he knew he had probably pushed his father’s patience far enough, he swiped the green phone icon across the screen. He didn’t even put the device to his ear, instead opting to keep it on speakerphone.

Demyan didn’t wait for a greeting before saying, “Son.”

“I’m kinda in the middle of something, I’ll call you back.”

“Hmm, nyet. You’ve ignored my calls all week. And look, I finally have you on the phone. Let’s talk.”

Roman glanced at the warehouse shutters, and then his watch again. Nine minutes. He was terribly good at keeping track of time, but that didn’t stop the urge to keep checking. He barely focused on what his father was saying.

Demyan didn’t miss it. “See, and you’re not even listening now. Why the distraction?”

Roman sighed, raking a hand through his hair. This was not the time to have a deep discussion with his father, however, he welcomed the distraction.

“My first job is taking place—yeah, as we speak.”

Even though Demyan did a good job of keeping his curiosity—and probably excitement, though he wouldn’t admit it—under control, Roman thought he could hear his father’s pitch heighten just a smidge. “Is it in the bank? You think you’re going to secure this?”

Roman went from feeling a sense of pride because he managed to excite his father—to something else entirely because Demyan had to follow it up by questioning the success of the job.

“Of course, I’m securing it. The plan is airtight. I’ve had this set for—”

“Shit can go wrong at the last minute.,” Demyan interjected frankly. “Maxim is expecting results. Monetary results.”

“You don’t have to remind me. I know tribute is coming up. I’ve spent the whole month preparing for it.”

“Maxim doesn’t take disappointment well, and I heard he prefers—”

“Cash.”

Demyan stayed quiet.

Roman continued, unfazed. “I have it—seventy percent owed to the Yazovs from what I expect to make from the cars boosted today. He wanted it in cash, and that is what I have. In cash. Mine is still wired to an offshore account.”

“Yeah?” Demyan asked, sounding a little surprised at first. “Maxim is a traditionalist—I’m sure you did your research on the man. Forgive me for making sure.”

Roman remained silent while his father continued to speak, although Demyan muttered more to himself rather than his son.

“He likes to feel the paper between his fingers. Physically feeling it ... seeing the cash holds value for him. If he can’t smell the ink, it means nothing.”

Well, damn.