The Agreement (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 1) by Bethany-Kris (motivational books for men .TXT) 📕

Josef raised his brows in surprise. “Depends on your brand of fun, Prince.”

Roman almost scoffed.

Almost.

“I’m sure you can find something for me to do, and keep me in line—it’s far worse when I have to go and find it for myself.”

Josef groaned, his cheeks working like he was chewing over his thoughts with every clench of his beefy jaws. Technically, it wasn’t an outlandish request. Even the boss would agree that a man of Roman’s age needed a bit of legroom to move and breathe if they wanted to avoid burning him out. Maxim had never specifically mentioned not being allowed to find other channels of entertainment.

He just knew to stay out of trouble.

Simple.

“I’m supposed to keep your nose clean, yeah,” Josef commented after some thought.

“Who says I’m not doing that?”

Josef considered that some more, and Roman could sense the weight shifting in his favor a little. “I’ll think of something,” the bull eventually replied.

“Yeah man, just think about it. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Technically.

Roman had a smile on his face as he walked into the office. Genuine fucking delight dared to creep up on him for the first time in two weeks. Finally, he might have the chance to live a little while he was here.

Shit.

He had to make it worth it.

Right?

• • •

“Igor Ivanov, you have heard of him, yes?” Josef spoke.

Roman was just about to get out of the car when the question stopped him. “He’s a Yazov brigadier—why?”

“He owns this place.”

Josef tipped his head towards the club behind them. Right smack in the middle of downtown Chicago, and there were people everywhere. This particular club seemed isolated, though. No long queues snaked out from the front entrance because it was as if everyone knew to stay away. Several bouncers stood at the door staring every passerby down, and that was enough to send any curious people on their way. Fast. Nobody was welcome—quite a vibe.

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” Roman replied.

“Yes, it is for your information so that if you decide you want to make it out of there alive tonight, you will behave yourself.”

Josef’s voice carried enough warning itself without the words, but they simply drove the point home for Roman. They walked together to the door, and the men guarding it stepped aside when they noticed the approaching bull. Without being ordered to do so. Well ...

At least, they had assigned him a man who knew his way around, and would use it.

Roman could already feel the floor vibrating under his feet as they made their way to the inner door. Flashing neon lights first blinded him, and then brightened his vision all at once. The thumping music pulsed in his veins, and he was beginning to realize that when sober, this was as much of a drug as the cocaine. He had been craving ... something. Maybe just a reminder he was still alive and well, and he didn’t even know it.

Josef extended an arm past his shoulder, pushing the door which swung open ahead of Roman. The blast of the music and the shards of roaming neon lights were a punch to the gut. He had been in withdrawal of clubs like he had been of drugs, apparently. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he stepped in further, and surveyed the place. Josef was right behind him, following his every step.

For its large space and the coveted location downtown, the club was fairly unpopulated. At the centre of the floor was a stage with a stripper pole, a runway that led to a wall of satiny, black curtains, and a suspended cage. There were girls on the stage everywhere, mostly naked, thrusting perky tits out while they stretched their legs up poles or twerked their round asses high in the air. The girls inside the cage were dressed like kittens, licking their paws and down on all four as they crawled around and touched themselves.

Roman ignored his cock that dared to thicken inside his jeans at the idea of a lap tease from a chick with kitten ears—just because.

The place was definitely a hard-on.

Josef put a hand on his shoulder, indicating the bar to him, and the two of them weaved their way through. He recognized the Yazov crowd straight away, and they did, too.

Suddenly, all eyes were on him while he asked for a vodka at the counter. Did anyone drink anything else here? Roman always wondered why they even bothered to fully stock these lavish bars when the only drink every member of the bratva wanted was vodka.

Josef spoke to the chick serving the drinks while Roman made note of the men who continued eyeing him from their position across the way. Traditionalists in their bratva lifestyle, Roman stuck out like a sore and bandaged thumb amongst the group. He wasn’t even fucking inked like they were. The only tattoos he had were the on the back of his neck—an eagle; his definition of true freedom—and the black roses on his chest afforded to him by his father. The only sign of his bratva rank.

And by the standards of these men—who wore proud, eight-pointed stars on their clavicles to signify their vory status—not a proper sign of rank, either.

If these men had to judge a guy by his cover at first glance, they looked for the ink first to tell them the story they needed to know about a man, and apparently, Roman had none. It was one of the many places his father’s bratva had separated from the traditionalists over the decades.

If this was their first impression of the New York Avdonins—Roman knew he was doing a piss poor job of it. He gave them the standard fuck off stare, hoping one would make a comment so he could make something of it, and then turned to speak to Josef.

Instead, he found a different man standing behind him. He recognized the scar across his right eye. Something a