The Agreement (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 1) Bethany-Kris (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📖

Anton nodded once, and he knew his grandfather would keep his word on the news he delivered to Claire. As he strolled out of the cell, he called over his shoulder, “But someone should have told you to get your shit together a long time ago, Roman.”

The cell door closed behind him, and he was alone.

Again.

Yeah.

“Yeah, someone should have given a shit,” he murmured to himself.

• • •

His stay didn’t even last a week. Two days after his grandfather’s visit, and Roman was led out of his cell, and freed to the streets. No explanation, and he knew better than to ask questions. The forces of the Avdonin Bratva, connections constantly working behind the scenes, had undoubtedly made it happen. There were a few perks to being who he was.

Even if he sacrificed for it.

A black car with the dark tinted windows, and a bull with a door already held open for him to slip into the backseat waited outside the jail for him. Roman squinted up at the sun, letting the warmth spread over on his face. At least, the shaking was gone. He still felt a gut-deep shudder from time to time, a clawing, irresistible urge to make a run for it.

To go find Marky.

A few more days of resistance and that whispering voice of cocaine still slipping through his veins would hopefully be gone, too.

Roman followed the man who was there to lead him to the car, saying nothing. Not that the bull minded—he didn’t speak, either. He didn’t know who he was but figured he was sent by Demyan to collect him. At one point, he’d stopped paying attention to all the men who surrounded his father. It was all a sea of fucking same-faced soldiers, anyway. Guys who weren’t going anywhere but right where they already were at the end of the day. It was easier if he didn’t make friends with people who eventually came to realize it was the men like him who kept them neck-down on the ground.

Under their boots.

In the car, he sank down in the seat. A few years ago, when conversation still flowed easily between his mother and him, she would have admonished him for sitting like that. Like a cranky teenager.

The scenes of the city passed him by—familiar streets he’d called home forever—and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would miss this place if he ever had to leave. As much as he loved New York, and his family, he hated it all, too.

Too much.

Roman was surprised to find his mother waiting at the door as he took the steps up to the house two at a time. The bulls who guarded the estate had their attention turned to him. The Prince was back, and he’d brought trouble with him.

Everywhere he went.

Claire stood in front of him—mixed emotions marred her face. The flickering anger dancing over her trembling lips was fleeting, though, because the sadness was just as quick to come in its place. His mother had never raised a hand to him—wouldn’t. She didn’t hit her children, but he wondered if she wanted to right then. He would have deserved it.

Then, she smiled.

Soft, and sweet.

The relief taunted him. He would never have admitted that he was happy to see her, too. As a kid he remembered being affectionate, clinging to his mother’s legs and gazing up at his father with pride. He laughed freely, and didn’t worry about what people wanted from him. Life’s experiences had knocked that bullshit out of him eventually.

“Roman.”

She spoke in her trademark quiet voice, leaning forward to put her arms around him. He let her hug him—that was as far he was going to allow it to go because anything more felt like a betrayal to her when he was still the cause of her pain. He breathed in his mother’s familiar scent, allowing himself a sense of comfort. When she pulled away, her gaze searched his six-foot-five-inch frame.

Looking for marks?

Bruises, maybe.

Some sign of jail.

Who knew?

He was glad she didn’t have to see him in the state that his grandfather found him a few days ago. There were conversations he never wanted to have with his mother, and the state of his addiction was high on that list.

“Your sister was about to fly down all the way from Russia,” she said, still holding him by his shoulders at arm’s length.

“Why would she do something as stupid as that?”

“Because she cares about you and loves you. She thought she would have been able to help. Or ... do something—you know how she is.”

Yeah, he knew exactly how his sister was. Vera would get there, end up making a huge fuss, and meddle in every aspect of his life where she wasn’t supposed to interfere. He loved Vera, probably much more than she knew, but she was who she was. She took her big sister role too seriously considering their ages. He was glad she didn’t turn up at the jail for his little stint. A flight from Russia wasn’t worth that.

Roman pulled away from his mother, and headed into the house. The last thing he needed was her sympathy or probing when it wouldn’t do anything for his situation, and any answers she managed to pull from him would only leave her feeling far worse.

Silence worked better.

Even if it hurt.

In the foyer, the booming voice of the Yazov Pakhan, Maxim, carried down the winding staircase. He recognized the voice, not only from the restaurant meeting, but because he had heard it a handful of times in the past. The man’s distant, but known and very real, friendship with Demyan afforded Roman the unfortunate luxury of knowing the man’s tone on the spot.

It instantly irritated him. He may not have reacted that way under any other circumstance, but he couldn't quite say that considering his recent stint in jail because of one of Maxim’s fucking men.

Well.

Roman had a big hand in that, too.

Not that