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

Karine didn’t dare to speak—not even to refuse. If she tried eating anything now, she was definitely going to get sick. Dima had that unfortunate effect on her. She doubted she was the only one.

SEVEN

Roman stood at the doorway of Maxim Yazov’s office, looking in. The two bulls that had led him through the maze of the mansion since he parked his car outside were gone, now, too. They’d done their job. Josef had driven to the mansion with him, of course, but he wasn’t allowed this far inside Maxim’s lair.

Apparently.

So, why was Roman?

Was he supposed to feel special or something? He didn’t want that kind of treatment, but certainly not from a boss with an organization of men who were only trying to find a problem with Roman.

The call for the meeting came in the morning, or rather, Josef’s did. Maxim let the bull know that he wanted to meet with Roman—no excuses—and to keep the day free of other duties. He knew better than to demand an explanation from Josef. It wasn’t like anyone explained anything of significance to him, either.

The guy was just doing his job.

Standing in the entry of the room with its tall oakwood doors and windows, all stained a dark chocolate brown like the inside of an old church, he surveyed the walls of bookshelves lined with books. The furniture was all upholstered in similar dark leather, shiny with recently polished cream. He could smell it mixing with the scent of leather in the air. That, and thick cigar smoke, wafting from the ashtrays on a massive desk that took up much more space than was needed for the man sitting behind it.

He wished the smoke made the scene harder to see because then at least it might have been easier to digest. Or shit, maybe it wouldn’t have instantly pissed him off as much as it did to see Dima sitting in the chair across from Maxim.

Fucking Christ.

Wasn’t that just his luck?

Somehow, in all the weeks that he’d been in Chicago, Roman hadn’t been in a situation where he was face-to-face with the man. He clenched his hands into fists by his side, the veins popping out in his arms like a network of rivulets from the pressure he rhythmically applied over and over.

The anger came fast.

Faster than he could prepare.

What the fuck was Dima doing here?

The only thing that kept Roman from asking that exact question—and probably earning himself a punishment for it, too—was the expression on Dima’s face. At first, when Roman entered, it seemed like he was in the middle of a sentence, convoluting his expression in a way that gave his irritation away. He had been directing that at Maxim over something, but snapped his mouth shut the moment Roman appeared in the doorway.

The irritation melted to anger just like that. Roman almost laughed—at least he could find some sick sense of retribution in the fact that his presence made Dima uncomfortable. That was worth something to him.

Maxim, however, offered him a smile as he leaned over his desk to get better access to the ashtray where his own cigar was resting. Dima stuck his between his lips, and puffed smoke out in a hazy, gray cloud that lifted toward the ceiling in dancing spirals.

“Come in, Roman, don’t be shy, yeah.” Maxim urged, grinning.

Shy was the last thing Roman felt, but he did what he was asked. Entering the room with confident, quick strides, he approached the desk where the two men were seated. He opted not to take a chair, refusing to lower himself to Dima’s level even if it was only physically, unless he was made to do it.

“I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to give you a proper welcome to Chicago, have we, Dima?”

Across the desk from Maxim, Dima only shrugged at the question. The boss didn’t seem offended, and Roman found his smile a little too jovial. Why the fuck was he this happy to see him?

“We’ve been busy,” Maxim added.

That time, Dima nodded and smiled, slyly.

Roman had no interest in whatever they were hinting at. If Maxim hoped he would pry into the bait he was feeding out, the man would have to hold his breath forever.

“No welcome necessary,” Roman replied, “I’m just here to get shit done.”

Maxim wagged a finger his way. “And I hear you’re already making good progress.”

Dima shifted in his seat at that statement. It was clear to Roman that the man despised him. Almost as much as he hated Dima. Maybe the asshole was still sour about Anastasia, and the thought put him in a happy place for a moment.

The fact that Dima’s paid whore gave him head wasn’t something that could be taken from him. He got for free what Dima could only pay the woman for. That was a hard hit to the proverbial balls because he seriously doubted the man had any actual ones left.

“Like I said, I’m trying to get shit done,” Roman repeated.

Maxim hummed his approval around another drag on his cigar, sitting back in his chair harder than before. He leaned so far into it that the legs creaked, and it swung a little, but he straightened up just as quickly to say to the two men, “I think it’s time we buried the hatchet, yes? What do you think, boys?”

Was that why he was called here?

Roman could think of a million better things to do. Like spooning out his testicles with a rusty spork on a busy highway. Literally anything would be better than this.

Dima puffed on his cigar more, unconcerned with the heady clouds he sent Roman’s way. All the while, he remained standing, unmoved by the subtle aggression.

“Okay, well, I wasn’t fucking asking,” Maxim said.

A narrowed gaze accompanied the growled order. The inflection and intent was clear: do as you are told.

“What do you want us to do?” Dima asked.

“Have a drink together, no? Now, even.” Maxim’s thin patience