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

had certainly shaped the way Roman perceived the world around him, and the relationships he chose to have inside of it.

Demyan clicked his tongue, his gaze darting back to the windows like he was over the moment of unsurprising disappointment, and already moving on. “You’re losing your touch, Roman. The least you can do for your mother’s sake is clean up the evidence.”

“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do. She sees everything, she knows everything,” Roman replied.

His father breathed in deeply and nodded. “Trust me, son, I know that very well.” Then, Demyan grinned indulgently—like a vision of his wife had filled his brain, and he was blown away somewhere else. It didn’t last long before the sharp, unapproving stare flicked back his way. “Back to you, though.”

Roman’s jaw clenched. His father tended to stay out of his habits, so why was he mentioning it now? Besides, it wasn’t like the drug-use was an actual problem for him. Certainly not something he couldn’t keep under control. Sometimes, he would end up going weeks without touching it. Then, something would pull him in again—usually boredom.

Shocker.

The Prince of Brighton Beach had very little else to do when he wasn’t boosting cars. How many secret raves could he go to? He started when he was barely sixteen. It had been over eleven years by now that he was living this life he made, stacking his own money. His nickname—dubbed by the reporters who had the balls to put his name to paper—of Little Odessa’s Devil hadn’t come out of nowhere.

He had never needed his father or the bratva to pay for his indulgences, he made his name in the streets before they could do it for him, so what gave Demyan the authority to call him out on anything?

Most importantly, and the one fact his father should have cared most about—Roman never got in the kind of shit he couldn’t get out of. It was the only rule he made an attempt to follow. He had all the cops he needed under his belt. Nobody was going to point a finger at his dad; their corrupt control of New York had spanned decades.

The Avdonins hadn’t been built overnight.

So, what was the fucking problem?

“You’re stewing in your own rage, Roman,” Demyan murmured, his tone softening just enough to remind him that more often than not, this man was his father before anything else. “There has to be a reason why. Is there something you want to tell me?”

There he went.

Again.

Reading his mind like an open book.

“We usually keep out of each other’s shit, don’t we?” Roman asked, determined to keep his tone calm even though the cocaine made that really hard.

“I need you fully present today, son.”

“What do you think I’m doing here, then?”

Demyan shook his head again, and nothing else. Christ, that aggravated Roman even more, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Not that it mattered. The conversation was over because they were already pulling up to the side of the road.

The Avdonins had selected the meeting spot. An eatery run by them, so it would be an environment they could control. As Roman shifted in his seat to ready for when his father chose to exit, more cars pulled up around them. A half a dozen, and then more soon after, with the same opaque windows as theirs.

Everyone had arrived, it seemed.

Right on time.

Roman wanted to say more to his father, but the boss was already stepping out of the car. Cool, calm, collected, and ready to handle his business. He wished he could say the same.

It had never served him well to leave anything unfinished—especially not with Demyan—and the conversation had left him with a bitter taste in the mouth.

Or shit ...

Maybe that was still the cocaine.

TWO

Roman’s eyes fixed on Anastasia’s long legs as she sat beside him, her perfectly slender thighs crossed over each other. The smoke from his cigarette curled and swirled around his fingers when he gestured her way, and she passed him a smile. A smile that told him many things—one, that she was bored of this scene, and two, that she enjoyed the way he looked at her.

She was a paid whore.

Added to the scenery.

Just like the other women who dotted the restaurant’s floor. Women the other men of the bratva had brought along with them to either show off, or entice someone for one reason or another. Games were constantly in play, and Roman didn’t pretend like he cared to understand or indulge in any of them.

Dressed to the nines; their faces caked with makeup and in clothes that cost just a little less than their boob jobs—the women added to the entertainment while the men discussed important business. And every single one of them knew they were here because they weren’t good enough to actually be wives. There wouldn’t be sparkling rings on their fingers. No mansions behind gates and little babies to soak their affection and attention on while their husbands did ... whatever they wanted to do.

None, that was, except his mother, Claire.

His father had arranged for a separate car to transport Claire to the venue, some time after everyone else had settled down. Some might consider it a huge disrespect to Claire that she was invited where no other wife of important men in the criminal underworld would go. Like it meant she wasn’t good enough, either. His mother once told him she didn’t care what people thought about where or with whom she spent her time. He believed her.

Roman gazed at his mother across the floor. Claire Avdonin, Irish enough to color her up, defined herself in ways others didn’t. He figured, some of his personality had definitely been formed by that, even if he took it to an extreme. Her class, style, and natural warmth was unparalleled by everyone she met—no one compared. Not another man’s wife, not passers on the street, and certainly not any of the other women here. She