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

was on clear display as he waved his hand between the two. Dima had to know it as well as Roman that defying a bratva boss could have extreme consequences for them both. “Well?”

That last word was all it took.

Dima was the first to make a move. A tray on the desk carried a crystal decanter and matching glasses with gold bottoms. He poured the vodka out of the decanter into two glasses, and finally turned to offer one to Roman.

No smile.

Not even here, asshole.

When Roman didn’t make a move to accept the drink, Maxim spoke up again.

“Maybe a part of your experience here can be ... growing the fuck up,” the boss told him with little inflection to his tone, and not an ounce of sympathy for the choice Roman was forced to make. He didn’t want to make nice with Dima; he wouldn’t piss on him to put him out if he was on fire. Too bad he wasn’t, really. Maxim continued on saying, “You’re here to pay off what you owe us in kind, and Dima has better things to do than hold a grudge. So, do act like a pair of grown men, get on with it, and drink.”

On the verge of turning on his heels and walking straight out of there, Roman only hesitated to consider his options. This wasn’t a part of the fucking deal. He wasn’t told he’d have to make nice with Dima in order to live and work here.

And yet ...

He took the glass because he was on Yazov territory. He had no Avdonin support or protection around him. The only reason why he was still alive and considered a usable asset in Chicago was because he was keeping himself out of trouble, combined with his last name. He needed to down the drink, and move the fuck on.

Suck it up, so to speak.

The vodka traveled smoothly down Roman’s throat, and Dima gave him one last glare before looking away when he handed the glass back over, turned upside down, and empty.

“There you two are—a proper do-over, no? You’ll meet some of my brigadiers later tonight over dinner, Roman,” Maxim continued. “I expect the same kind of behavior at my dinner table. Is that understood?”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, here, in my house. Stick around, get to know the lay of my land, as they say. If you’re going to be working for me, you will have to know how I like things to be done around here. The same as everyone else.”

Maxim tapped his cigar against a crystal ashtray as he finished speaking. This was the first Roman had heard anything about a dinner. He didn’t want to be included in any Yazov meetings, and had little to no use for the brigadiers in regards to his own side of business. He had every intention of working at the chop shop alone, other than his hand picked crew, just like he did back home.

What was he even supposed to do around the estate until dinner?

Play with my nuts?

Coke was still a no-go, too. So that was out of the question, and it was looking like he was going to have to suffer the formalities of the Yazov Bratva simply because he didn’t have any excuse worthy enough to get out of it.

Fun.

Maxim continued staring at him, clearly waiting for the only acceptable response that he expected to come from Roman. One that he wanted to come without question.

And it did.

Unfortunately.

“It would be my pleasure,” Roman said.

The only problem with that?

He was a bad fucking liar.

Always had been.

• • •

Maxim and Dima had to have known that Roman held no interest in breaking bread with the rest of the Yazov men. And yet, there was nothing they could say about it since Roman had accepted their invitation.

Once he’d walked out of Maxim’s office, he decided to take the boss’s suggestion of checking out the mansion and the rest of the estate. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and any plans he might have had were fucked now. Nonetheless, he was under no disillusion. He understood good and well that he was always being watched. Men showed themselves in every corner of the mansion, and only a few cameras covered certain areas.

Maxim would be sure to get an exact report of Roman’s every activity in his house. If this was New York, and his father had essentially forced him to stay until dinner, Roman would have gone up to every camera that was watching and given it some footage to remember.

This was a whole different ball game. He had to consistently remind himself to watch his ass—nobody else was going to do it for him.

Maxim Yazov’s mansion was considerably large, and sat on a plot of private land that kept any curious neighbors far away. He passed more corridors and rooms than he would know what to do with if this was his home. Wealth covered every bare inch that it could. From the rich stains that glossed the hardwood floors to the heavy, silk drapes hanging from every window.

It was much bigger than the Avdonins’ family home. But then again, Roman’s mother always insisted they didn’t need to go overboard with the size of their home as long as it had everything they needed, and was easy to maintain. Clearly, the values of his parents differed from that of the Yazovs.

This house reminded him of jocks in a locker room bragging about the size of their cocks. Ultimately, none of it mattered if you didn’t know what to do with it.

He had slipped out of the sliding doors at the end of one of the rear hallways to find himself inside what could be best described as a conservatory. A glass dome-shaped extension at the back of the house that was big enough to contain its own large swimming pool. A good thirty by forty feet with an apparent deep and shallow end. Perfectly maintained, green grass with a stone pathway