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

“They said you did it yourself, I heard.”

Roman’s lips twitched with an urge to smirk, but he held it back. Barely. The whispers about him and his business—and the reason why he found himself in Chicago—were already making the rounds, it seemed. It was even getting back to him.

That was fast.

“My father trafficks guns—I did better with cars,” Roman offered with a shrug. “It’s not really the same kind of business, if you know what I mean.”

Josef pursed his lips, impressed, sending Roman’s thoughts into a tizzy while he tried to figure out if this conversation was even genuine. Ever since that meeting between the bratvas—the day he tried to steal Dima’s Bugatti—he felt like everyone around him was screwing him over. Or he was paranoid enough to think it might be happening.

Including his own father.

Roman was now beginning to understand why his grandfather had always told him that he should never trust anybody. Least of all, the guy who shaved his beard.

Think about it, Roman, if a man was untouchable—bulletproof—who would you pay to do the deed on an unkillable man? Then, Anton would grin and add, His barber, of course.

Just because Josef engaged him in a chat didn’t mean they were suddenly friends. He was still a Yazov bull, and Roman was just the Avdonin Prince who had been chopped down and shipped to Chicago to pay his dues. Just like the cars that had brought him here in the first place.

Not a single day went by that he wasn’t reminded he was walking a tightrope. The only reason he was here was to make money for the Yazovs, another check and balance that he wouldn’t be free and out of prison if it wasn’t for the friendship between Maxim and Demyan. They would have left him in there for as long as it took the Avdonins to get him out while Maxim’s people kept pulling their goddamn strings.

All he was expected to do now was to stay out of trouble, keep his head down and set up the chop shop scene in Illinois. Once that was done, and Maxim was sufficiently satisfied, he would be able to return to New York. Roman didn’t know if this would also redeem him in his father’s eyes, but he also couldn’t say he cared. It wasn’t exactly a puzzle—this had worked out perfectly for both Maxim and Demyan. His father believed his son needed to be taught a lesson that forced him out of New York, and away from his privilege.

Away from bad influences, his familiar streets, and the power he could so easily extend because of who he was.

Maxim got a new business venture in return. One that would bring him in hundreds of millions of dollars in a matter of years.

“What are they building here—an apartment block?” he asked Josef.

The construction crew continued above them, hammering, sawing and cementing high walls. The premises belonged to the Yazov Bratva, and it was where Roman had been given a small shack as his own office. The construction sounds alone would have been enough to annoy the fuck out of anyone else. Roman had an ability to drown everything else out, barely even noticing the sounds around him.

Josef shrugged in response, muttering low, “Maybe apartments, maybe offices. It’s none of your concern.”

The reply was curt, but not unfriendly. It still reminded Roman that he needed to color inside the lines here—with everyone.

Roman shrugged, too, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground before he stepped down with his shoe and pressed it into the muddy gravel. “No, it fucking isn’t.”

Josef, pleased with that response if the tight smile he gave was any indication, gestured to the shack. They started walking in the direction of the room where Roman worked. At the moment, his hours revolved around making the right phone calls, gathering lists and contacts, and having his ear to the ground. He had to first formulate the team of people he trusted the most, so that when he was ready and had the opportunity for their first serious theft run, he would have a team that was capable, too. One he wouldn’t need to worry about fucking up because they were too green to the business.

“Is the new project going well?” his mother had asked him on the phone two days ago. She wouldn’t outright ask about his work, making it sound like it was a new corporate job because that was easier to swallow, he imagined.

“Fine, Ma.”

“Aren’t you going to ask about him?”

Roman had hesitated. They both knew she had meant his father. He asked instead, “Does he ask about me?”

“Don’t be like that. He misses you, baby.”

Roman had nearly cackled. “Did he use those words?”

Though he hadn’t been looking at his mother’s face—he knew she had to be smiling. Demyan Avdonin, usually emotionless on his best days, wasn’t going to talk about his son in that way. Certainly not now when Roman was a grown ass man.

“So, maybe not,” his mother had added at the end of their conversation with a laugh, “but I know he does, Roman. He’s missed you for a long time—longer than you realize. But how is he supposed to tell you that when you can’t even stand to hear me say it to you?”

He’d needed to get her off the phone after that.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it here.”

Josef’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Roman wasn’t paying attention, and hadn’t realized the man was still talking.

“The only issue with that is I’m not sure I like it anywhere.”

Josef lifted a brow indifferently. “It’s not like there’s a rulebook that says you have to fit in, no?”

At the door of Roman’s new office, he stopped at the threshold and gave his new companion a twisted grin. Josef would remain at the door for as long as Roman stayed inside.

“No, I don’t really care to fit in,” Roman noted, giving the work around him one last look, “but nobody said