Page 6 of The Agreement

Demyan shook his head again, and nothing else. Christ, that aggravated Roman even more, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Not that it mattered. The conversation was over because they were already pulling up to the side of the road.

The Avdonins had selected the meeting spot. An eatery run by them, so it would be an environment they could control. As Roman shifted in his seat to ready for when his father chose to exit, more cars pulled up around them. A half a dozen, and then more soon after, with the same opaque windows as theirs.

Everyone had arrived, it seemed.

Right on time.

Roman wanted to say more to his father, but the boss was already stepping out of the car. Cool, calm, collected, and ready to handle his business. He wished he could say the same.

It had never served him well to leave anything unfinished—especially not with Demyan—and the conversation had left him with a bitter taste in the mouth.

Or shit ...

Maybe that was still the cocaine.

TWO

Roman’s eyes fixed on Anastasia’s long legs as she sat beside him, her perfectly slender thighs crossed over each other. The smoke from his cigarette curled and swirled around his fingers when he gestured her way, and she passed him a smile. A smile that told him many things—one, that she was bored of this scene, and two, that she enjoyed the way he looked at her.

She was a paid whore.

Added to the scenery.

Just like the other women who dotted the restaurant’s floor. Women the other men of the bratva had brought along with them to either show off, or entice someone for one reason or another. Games were constantly in play, and Roman didn’t pretend like he cared to understand or indulge in any of them.

Dressed to the nines; their faces caked with makeup and in clothes that cost just a little less than their boob jobs—the women added to the entertainment while the men discussed important business. And every single one of them knew they were here because they weren’t good enough to actually be wives. There wouldn’t be sparkling rings on their fingers. No mansions behind gates and little babies to soak their affection and attention on while their husbands did ... whatever they wanted to do.

None, that was, except his mother, Claire.

His father had arranged for a separate car to transport Claire to the venue, some time after everyone else had settled down. Some might consider it a huge disrespect to Claire that she was invited where no other wife of important men in the criminal underworld would go. Like it meant she wasn’t good enough, either. His mother once told him she didn’t care what people thought about where or with whom she spent her time. He believed her.

Roman gazed at his mother across the floor. Claire Avdonin, Irish enough to color her up, defined herself in ways others didn’t. He figured, some of his personality had definitely been formed by that, even if he took it to an extreme. Her class, style, and natural warmth was unparalleled by everyone she met—no one compared. Not another man’s wife, not passers on the street, and certainly not any of the other women here. She was the kind of woman who was born to stand beside the man she did. Except when asked, she liked to say it had been learned. Nonetheless, her very nature made her a perfect hostess for the dinner that had been able to immediately make everyone feel comfortable in their surroundings.

These were rival, criminal bosses ... and their men. Important men from all sides, really. Loud as a habit. Difficult by nature. Dominant in their power.

Yet, their chauvinistic, tattooed, crass selves melted into smiling, softer spoken gentlemen when Claire came around with her high-voltage smile, and her melodic, kind voice. She didn’t intrude, was a sight to see, she never asked questions, and people trusted her.

She set them off guard.

Every single time.

If nothing else, Roman had to hand it to his father for selecting the right woman to have by his side.

His mother looked at him across the room like she sensed he was watching her. She smiled at him, quick and fleeting, and he gave her a nod in response. Then, Anastasia’s hand on Roman’s knee brought him quickly back to the table he was sitting at.

This shit was purposeful.

It had to be.

His father arranged to have him stuck at his current table with these two—maybe to punish him for their earlier conversation, or just because he thought Roman could use a lesson in self-control.

Whatever the reason, he wasn’t thrilled. He didn’t like the idea that his father had arranged for him to be at this table, with a paid whore and Dima Kuznetsov, son of Leonid Kusnetsov. A Vor from the Chicago Bratva, there was something about Dima that rubbed Roman wrong. He didn’t have to know what it was for it to be there—it being there was enough.

Anastasia moved her hand away from Roman’s knee before Dima noticed it there. After all, he was probably the one who paid for her—maybe she was one of his women that he trusted enough to travel, who fucking knew—and it was obvious to Roman that he was trying to establish himself as the bigger man at the table.

Yeah.

It was going to take more than comparing cocks in whatever way Dima felt like it to make Roman even consider weighing whether or not the man was worth the effort. He already knew the answer anyway.