Page 82 of The Agreement

Roman swung the door open as Marky grabbed his arm, jerking hard to tug him back into the seat.

“Don’t be a fucking moron,” Marky hissed at him. “You’re not seriously going to see her, are you? That could get you killed, man.”

Roman arched a single brow at his best friend, dropping his stare to where Marky’s hand was still on his arm. He didn’t even have to speak for the man to let him go with a muttered fuck, sorry.

Not willing to argue, Roman stepped out of the car. He wasn’t exactly sure where to go to find Karine, but he figured there would only be so many verandas he was capable of climbing up, right? He’d eventually find his way to her.

“Pick me up in the morning,” he called to Marky, rounding the front of the car, his form creating a long shadow in front of the headlights when he passed. “Five AM, man.”

Marky remained in the driver’s seat, fuming as he drummed his fingers to the leather of the steering wheel and shook his head.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he said in a groan.

Roman was already walking away, gravel crunching under his shoes. Tossing a middle finger over his shoulder, he muttered, “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too.”

EIGHTEEN

Roman scaled the stone wall surrounding the section of the mansion’s drive easily. Despite his quickness and the darkness of the property, he was hyper aware of the comings-and-goings of the men around the estate. Tribute was still in full swing, and every vor of the Yazov Bratva from all over the state, and beyond, would be there to see Maxim.

And yet, Roman felt invisible—or maybe, invincible.

Either way, everyone else seemed to have too much of their own shit to deal with than worry about keeping an eye on the boss’s daughter. Clearly, they all believed she was too placid and sidelined to misbehave. He didn’t think anybody knew who Karine Yazov was under her drug-induced surface, whereas he couldn’t wait to find out more. Shame on him for being willing to take advantage of that—except shame was the last thing he felt about it.

He found his way to the veranda she had told him about. The only one on the side of the mansion capable of being climbed. And even from the ground, he could see white curtains billowing at the doors. It had to lead to her. Metal posts for pillars, constructed from twisted, interwoven metal all the way up, made for perfect rungs.

Up until that point, he hadn’t noticed many security cameras, and figured he probably wouldn’t find any this deep into the property. A point he was well aware of because Maxim was like most other bratva bosses who didn’t want any records of what went on inside their premises. They were also stubborn assholes—overconfident in their ability to keep their shit under control.

Maxim most likely believed nobody would dare wander his estate beyond where he allowed, and especially not directly under his nose.

Well.

Just like he didn’t know his daughter, he obviously didn’t know Roman, either.

Before he started climbing the metal rungs upward, he gave it one last thought. A final opportunity to find a reason why and change his mind. Roman didn’t have to go up just because she invited him—he didn’t owe her anything, and she couldn’t expect something, either.

Roman was always real with himself, though. He wasn’t doing this just in hopes of gaining information from her—there was a big chance she didn’t know anything about the things that had come to his attention and wouldn’t be able to help him to begin with. And yet, he couldn’t convince himself to turn away and go.

So, being there wasn’t just about splitting the Yazov Bratva open—he wanted to see Karine. Needed to see her, even. Maybe if he fucked her just once, then he’d be able to get her out of his system and move on.

From the first moment they met, she occupied his mind and with this invitation ... shit, there was no way he would forget about her, especially if he walked away from tonight alive. If he didn’t do this, if he couldn’t follow through, he had the distinct feeling he was going to regret it.

Truth was, he’d already made up his mind.

Roman was there, after all.

Dusting his hands, he took the metal poles like ladder rungs swiftly. He barely broke a sweat when he swung himself over the railing, and landed in the veranda with a soft thud-thud of the soles of his shoes to announce his arrival.

The moon, silvery and bright against the sky’s black backdrop, somehow seemed to hang lower and closer to her room. Those curtains in the doorway, white in the shadows, rose and fell in the soft breeze, urging Roman toward them. French doors had been left wide open—like an invitation.

She expected him.

Made it easy.

Hell, he appreciated that, and a woman who knew what she wanted. If it hadn’t already been obvious to him, it certainly was now.

The curtains in the doorway brushed along Roman gently—like a soft hug—when he was close enough to the billowing fabric. He didn’t linger long between the flapping folds before he stepped just beyond the threshold. Doing so allowed him a good view inside the room.

And Karine.