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

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Roman asked his mother, his sharp tone making her wince. He really didn’t expect an answer, and instead of waiting for one, followed the source of the voice. It led him to his father’s office upstairs.

Claire stayed right on his heels. “Roman ... leave them be. Calm down a bit before—”

He ignored his mother, hot anger spiraling into his gut as he charged through the doors of the office to find his father in friendly conversation with the boss of the Chicago Bratva. Both men sat with swirling bourbons in their crystal glasses in each of his father’s favorite leather bucket chairs. The ones Demyan liked placed directly in front of the bay windows so that he had a view of the birds in the spring and summer months. Both men turned his way at the abrupt—and rude, although he didn’t give a damn—entrance.

“Son,” was all Demyan remarked.

His expression remained undecipherable.

Blank like paper.

Roman couldn’t tell if his father was happy to see him or not as he stepped further into the room. He didn’t turn to make sure his mother was gone. She knew to disappear and not interfere when vory were in the house, but especially when they were in his father’s office. Claire had been playing this game for far longer than even Roman. Her voice was loud in private, but she knew when that time was, too.

Maxim Yazov sat staring at him, resignation pulling his face in a more somber expression—the kind of look an uncle might give their favorite nephew for breaking a vase. Roman knew the man from his childhood, but he wouldn’t go as far to say he held real affection for the man in the same way he might for his uncle, Koldan, the boss of the Jersey Bratva. As far as he remembered—Demyan and Maxim kept a friendship, but not a particularly close one. They had a decent working relationship, and Roman was brought up to respect Maxim because of it, but also as a man who had earned his rank in the bratva. A boss.

But he wasn’t Roman’s boss.

That’s what counted today. One of his men had set him up, and sent him to jail over a car. Petty bullshit, really. None of his business with the car boost would really affect business between the organizations. Brigadiers fought amongst themselves all the time, especially between bratvas, and as long as it didn’t hurt any withstanding deals or cross some obvious line, then nobody gave a shit.

What made him different?

Roman couldn’t be sure if Maxim had a role to play in his arrest, too. He intended on finding out, though.

“Do you want to explain to me—”

Demyan arched a brow, and the second his mouth opened, Roman’s words came to a halt when his father said, “The first words out of your mouth should be thank you and nothing else, Roman.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maxim here,” Demyan explained, a hand waving in the direction of the quiet man, “pulled some strings, and got you out of the doghouse way sooner than we would have managed.”

Roman didn’t even blink. “I could have waited it out—let’s not pretend like they were going to press charges that actually fucking stuck. Name a brigadier you know that wants his name on a police record as the victim. I was fine.”

His father gave him that look—one that spoke volumes. A frequent, silent order that had accompanied him since childhood, and it pissed him off even more because of it. Be grateful, Roman, it said.

For what?

Getting clean on a jailhouse floor?

Unneeded police attention on his work?

Right.

Grateful.

Roman knew what was expected of him, and only because he didn’t care to make the situation more difficult for himself than it needed to be, he turned to Maxim and gave him a nod. That was as far as he was going to go. The words thank you would not be pried from his living, breathing mouth.

“You wouldn’t have been fine,” Demyan noted, then, turning to Maxim with a nod of his own. “As I’ve said already, your help is appreciated, of course.”

Roman almost flinched at that statement.

Anton would never.

Demyan was stooping—bending to another man in a position of power, even if it was in private. That went against everything he had ever known about his father, and what the man taught him. Roman seriously doubted the Yazovs had anything that interested his father enough to essentially put him on his knees—even hypothetically.

So, why?

What was he trying to prove?

Apparently, Demyan wanted to prove something to Roman if his next words were any indication. “Maybe there is some way that my son can explain his actions. For once, I would enjoy hearing that.”

His gaze turned on Roman, cold but patient.

Waiting.

So did Maxim’s.

He had fucking news for them—not that they would like it. The two were going to keep waiting for something Roman didn’t have. Or rather, something he didn’t plan to give at all. Everyone in the room knew exactly what—and why—it had happened.

This was all a charade.

He refused to play into it.

“I’m not going to make excuses for myself,” Roman said simply.

Maxim sat forward on the edge of his seat, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself from watching the train wreck happen right in front of his face. Demyan drummed his fingers on the armchair, the line of his jaw tensing in a way that meant he was losing his calm demeanor, and fast.

The only noise?

Ice cubes swirling in his father’s glass.

What else did he expect from Roman? Groveling? Going down on his knees and fucking apologizing to this man like he was the lesser between them?

Absolutely not.

When Demyan glanced at Maxim once more, a look was exchanged between the two that said there was something else at play. Something he wasn’t privy to, and he didn’t like that. It immediately put him on edge sharper than he could handle. He should have known his father wasn’t going to just let his actions go with a half-assed