Page 97 of The Agreement

Roman hung up the phone, and instantly turned on his heels, yanking open the front door and heading out of his apartment. He wasn’t lying when he said he had to meet the crew. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to keep his attention on that shit when all he could think about was Karine.

And that night ...

Her breakdown.

Maybe she didn’t want to be saved, but goddammit ... he couldn’t imagine her married to Dima, either. The hot anger that spilled down his spine at the very idea was enough to make him sick. He wanted to keep that motherfucker far away from her.

But how?

The thought was still lingering in the back of his mind when he turned the corner at the end of the hall of his loft that led to the stairwell. Roman was still trying to come up with a plan when he felt a crack land on the back of his skull.

He didn’t even see the bat coming. Everything went black when his body hit the ground with a thud.

• • •

It was the blinding ache in his ribs that finally brought Roman around to consciousness. The painful throbbing at the back of his head was a close second, though. Both were intense enough to push him to the edge of unconsciousness again, if only because the second he felt the pain, he wanted it to go away.

Roman crawled off that edge, forcing himself to open his eyes wide, and still wasn’t able to see anything at all. Dingy darkness surrounded him, a mustiness crawling into his lungs with every breath and making him want to puke from the smell alone. He couldn’t tell if it was just his swimming vision giving up on him or the actual lack of lighting in the space.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” came a dark voice, and a low chuckle from within the shadows.

Too close to him, really.

Roman blinked into the darkness, attempting to move if only to settle the swelling nausea. He quickly discovered that his wrists were tied together—stretched high over his head, the rope connected to a chain wrapped around a wooden beam.

His toes grazed the ground.

Barely.

Like an animal ready to be skinned, he hung there, helpless. Roman tried not to panic—he did. It didn’t work.

Fuck.

This was the end.

This was how he would die. After every stunt he pulled over the years—all the outrageous shit he managed to do, and the trouble he found time and time again ... Roman was going to die like this.

Jesus Christ.

Sorry, Papa.

His ma, too.

They didn’t deserve this.

“Down here,” came the murmur.

Roman tilted his head down, finding Maxim’s face staring back from down below. His brain was beginning to connect the dots—painfully so.

Maxim sat on his haunches, right in front of Roman’s feet. A smoky cigar rested between his fingers in one hand, and a baseball bat waited in the other.

For some fucked up reason that Roman couldn’t decipher, the man was shirtless. All his tattoos were on full display, the story of a high ranking bratva vor inked across a canvas of sweat-dotted skin.

Maxim had clearly taken liberties with the baseball bat before Roman even regained his consciousness. Why else were his ribs on fire?

“The fuck is this shit?” he managed to groan. “What did I—”

His words cut off from the dryness in his throat and mouth that had his muscles closing around the sound trying to escape. He wouldn’t ask for water when, given his current state, it would be a sign of defeat to a man like Maxim.