Page 7 of The Agreement

Dima wasn’t.

Insignificant, Dima’s voice was a nuisance at the table. Dragging at the back of his mind, fraying his already taut nerves. The topic at hand would have interested Roman, maybe, if he was just trying to inform him about the business, but he wasn’t.

Anastasia was good at pretending to hang off his every word. Her bright red hair matched the color of her plump lips. The blindingly shiny silver dress also matched her stilettos. She glanced at him from time to time, every chance she got to look away from the man who had an arm around her delicate shoulders.

“But you see, sweetheart, I know where to put my money so I can make more, yes? You get it?” Dima asked, speaking only to Anastasia but loud enough that his other companion at the table was forced to grit his teeth through it.

Roman’s molars were going to crack.

Surely.

He did his best to keep the cocaine buzz going, but that shit was slowly starting to fade. If he didn’t slip away somewhere to get back into the right headspace, nothing good would happen. Except people would notice. More specifically, his father. It almost made him want to do it more, just for the reaction. Maybe that would trigger Demyan in to finishing the conversation he instigated in the car.

He still wasn’t over that.

“You are so smart,” Anastasia said.

A smile curled the corners of her lips as she threw Roman a knowing glance. She was making it too obvious, and yet, it flew under Dima’s radar. He chuckled—the pride thick and clear—while he nodded to her compliment.

Dima winked, saying, “I was born into this business. Multiplying my capital is in my blood, hmm?”

And so is the flesh trade; Roman wanted to add but he chewed on his words—mainly because he didn’t want to direct Dima’s attention to himself. He refused to engage unless required ...

Or provoked.

Anastasia drawled on, her voice sultry in Dima’s ear with praises and compliments that stroked the man’s ego but with just enough suggestive sarcasm to keep Roman mildly amused. Then, he had to go and notice the way she flicked her tongue over her lips.

Yeah, sure, he wouldn’t have minded bending her over a table and having his fill. Sex was sex—he enjoyed feeding the urge—and he didn’t feel very much shame about it.

Never had.

Consenting adults could do whatever the fuck they wanted, as long as it felt good. And hell, even if it didn't.

He just had to like it.

In fact, he imagined getting his fill from Anastasia within yelling distance of Dima—there was no better way to ruin a man’s reputation than fucking his woman—and it seemed like a good idea. Rubbing his hand over his upper lip again, he sniffed.

Across the room, he briefly listened to the conversations passing between his father, and the other bosses at the table. The meeting was turning out to be a success. Demyan was being offered trafficking connections to help grow the network for the Avdonins beyond their current reach. It looked like he would even accept the offer. He would have to be a fool to turn that down.

Roman wondered what Maxim Yazov from Chicago wanted in return, though.

Three bratvas working together in harmony was unheard of, but if they could make it happen, it was better than one working alone. Even Roman knew that.

“I mean they’re all a ripe, young age to listen, you know?” Dima continued.

Jesus Christ.

How was he still talking?

Roman’s irritation bubbled as he was forced to pay attention to what the idiot playing pretend said. Anastasia shifted in her seat, and this was the first time she displayed a reaction to the content of this conversation.

“So, it’s not like they can exactly put up a fight, yeah? We move them quickly between cities. Within a few weeks there’s no trace of them.”

Dima didn’t even try to hide his pleasure at stating that fact. A creep move to Roman. Anastasia threw him another look of discomfort, but he didn’t know what she wanted him to say. Sure, she had to pretend to drool over every word that left Dima’s mouth, but trafficking teenage girls for the sex trade and then bragging about it—was not exactly an easy pill to swallow.

Dima was searching Anastasia’s face to make sure he had made an adequate impression on her, and then he turned to Roman.

“Eight. States, no? Six months and a hundred million dollars,” Dima bragged.