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

pirate might have earned himself and would have covered with a patch—the unsightly, puckered wound might have been long healed, but it was still damn uncomfortable to look at. But Igor Ivanov didn’t have time for shit like making others comfortable with something stupid like staring at him.

“You are Roman Avdonin,” Igor said, the words a grunted utter through a thick Russian accent that made Roman tip his chin up a bit in response.

Another weak spot for him.

He’d never cared to learn the language.

Roman eyed Josef standing at the far end of the counter, watching with careful amusement. Apparently, he wanted to keep his distance while Igor spoke with him. Wasn’t he supposed to be by his side at all times?

“Yes, I am. And you are Igor Ivanov. Nice place, man.”

Igor arched a thick brow, the one where the scar continued right up through to his forehead. “Demyan Avdonin’s pup.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Igor bared his teeth like a rabid dog might when he was at the end of his chain, and already going insane. “Okay, how about we try this, no? The only reason you are still alive is because our boss and yours have shaken hands. Comrades.”

No. The only reason Roman was even in Chicago was because their bratva had screwed him over, but he kept that to himself.

The angry Russian at his side continued on, saying through clenched teeth, “You think you’re some big boss now—calling the shots on my fucking side of town for that stupid little scheme of yours? You’re nothing more than a piece of slimy shit stuck to my shoe, pup.”

Nice.

Some guys just had to go and make a big deal about people coming into their territory—they made a show out of it, even. Roman couldn’t say he’d done what Igor accused, but it wasn’t impossible, either. At the same time, if those Russians in the corner were men of Igor’s specifically, then this show made a lot more sense.

Everyone had to make their lines clear.

Mark their territory well.

At the same time, Roman wouldn’t be made to look like a dumb fuck for Igor’s pleasure, either. “I’m just doing what I’ve been told to do, actually. If my business has intersected with yours since I’ve been here, my bad—nature of my work sometimes, you know?”

“And yet, you are here, making demands. They’ll have to find another warehouse for you—I won’t be giving up one of mine to add to whatever collection Maxim is building for your spoiled ass, suka.”

Ah.

Now he’d gone from calling Roman a pup, to taunting him with the Russian equivalent for bitch. Weak men loved the simplicity of name-calling; he’d always thought it was really just a sign of someone’s lack of intelligence. They didn’t have a better comeback than a name that might piss a man off, or hurt his ego.

To him?

That shit was funny.

Roman breathed deeply, squaring his shoulders as a realization dawned on him. He was starting to see what this was really about. Igor was undoubtedly pissed off because Roman had turned away the list that was sent to him—a list of men Igor suggested for the new team at the chop shop gig.

“I am going to run the scheme my way,” Roman said to the man, keeping his arms folded across the bar, and his position as relaxed as he could seem. He had a short fuse, sure, but he also saw bait when it was right in front of his face. He wouldn’t be the idiot taking it here. “I’m sure Maxim will agree that I know what I’m doing. He wouldn’t have gotten me here if he didn’t already believe it to be true.”

“You’re just ... just a fucking kid!”

Igor’s yell carried over the thumping music, making men turn to stare their way. It was just another excuse to look, everyone already knew Igor and Roman were talking business. Now they simply didn’t have to pretend not to pay attention.

Tension was a buzz electrifying the air while conversations dropped to a low hum. They were all trying to hear what might be said next, and the ball was in his court. Roman took it, happily.

“And yet, your pakhan has given me the final say on everything regarding my business,” Roman said. “So if you don’t like that, you know exactly the man to take it to. I encourage you to do so.”

Igor’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his drink tighter. He took a step closer to Roman, but he held his ground, not moving a single inch. The man wouldn’t touch him, he knew that. He was here under Maxim’s orders. As long as he didn’t provoke the man in a purposeful way that would justify a response, Roman wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Igor knew it, too. One hard breath from the man, and he muttered, “Enjoy yourself tonight, yes? Who knows how long it will last.”

Igor turned away, and immediately the conversations resumed around them. Josef almost looked relieved when Roman caught his eye.

The second Igor had walked away, Josef replaced his empty space.

“Didn’t think I could do it, did you?” he asked, daring to grin.

“Just keep your fucking head down. You’re going to get my ass in trouble for bringing you here.”

“We were just having a chat, man, relax. It’s all good.”

Even though Roman was smiling, a tightness settled deep in his abdomen. This was Chicago, he wasn’t the prince of the streets here. Little Odessa’s Devil was not in Brighton Beach anymore, and every fucking piece of shit here was going to remind him of exactly that.

Over and over again.

He looked around, scanning the crowd that had spread away now, each group pretending they didn’t have their eye on him. If this was the only way to survive this place, he would have loved to do it with a little bit of help to give him an edge. One that afforded him the ability to not care. However, cocaine was off the table. He knew he couldn’t get back into