The Agreement (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 1)

by Bethany-Kris

  Dima hated being made to wait on her, and they were supposed to be making wedding plans. As if they planned for her to actually take part.

  Unlikely.

  Karine took one small bite of the bagel, giving in to her need for some sustenance, and immediately regretted the choice. Her gag reflex was still as strong as ever, but at least she managed to avoid Dima seeing her hold back the bagel by turning away. It wasn’t her stomach that refused the bagel, but the strange taste that accompanied it. It took her more than a few chews to decide whether or not it was the bagel, or just her own body refusing the food.

  She kept eating, though.

  It did make her feel better.

  After handing her the bagel, Masha had merged into the background of the kitchen to remain out of the couple’s way. It was a part of her role—to be present without being seen, to predict what her mistress's needs were without being commanded. She was certainly not permitted to make her presence known when Dima was around. He didn’t care to deal with the likes of people he considered lesser than him.

  Like a slave.

  Karine was envious of Masha—she would give anything to be truly invisible. Especially now when, more often than not, she wondered if she might prefer a slave’s life to one where she was going to be bound to Dima forever.

  That was a horrifying reality.

  It stared her right in the face.

  As she watched Dima continue his abusive phone call, a silly little thought fluttered through the back of her mind. It dared to be hopeful, which only made it all the more painful.

  What if she told her father how she truly felt, her mind whispered, would he even be willing to listen?

  Maybe she could try—just one time. Maybe she was wrong about him all along. As soon as the ridiculous thoughts filled her mind, she knew they were nothing more than idiotic notions to have, considering. Her father despised her, without ever having explained why or explicitly said it, she knew it; felt it deep in her heart whenever she gained the courage to look the man in his face.

  She was well aware of the fact that he shunned her to a separate wing of the mansion because he couldn’t bear to have her around more than he requested. It suited him best that she existed in the periphery of his life where he didn’t have to look at her, or speak to her. But this had been her entire life with the man, too.

  A shame he wouldn’t explain.

  She was more than a burden.

  Karine didn’t understand it because she couldn’t recall what she had ever done to defy or upset him. When had she ever been a bad daughter? Nothing she tried pleased him enough to earn his attention or affection.

  Not that she suspected her father’s attachment to her would make a difference to whether or not she had a choice of refusal when Dima declared that he had chosen her to be his wife. If anything, that created a solution for Maxim. He had a viable excuse to finally wipe his hands of his problematic daughter.

  Nonetheless, a part of Karine had hoped the news might please her father. Dima and Maxim were close associates—he was someone who was trusted by the family, and respected by the bratva. Everyone else congratulated Karine on an excellent match, like she had really been given a choice, and some even sounded envious.

  When Dima delivered the news to Maxim, it was the first time Karine noticed something akin to a smile on her father’s face when he turned to her. She had thought he would be proud—for a moment, she allowed herself the vulnerability of expecting something rare from her father.

  Kindness.

  She shouldn't have bothered.

  “It’s the best thing you can do for yourself.”

  That was his only comment.

  What else had she been hoping for?

  “You’re late,” Dima snapped.

  Karine’s mind was elsewhere—her constant distractions from her thoughts and the world around her never left—but he brought her rudely back to the room. He never hesitated to remind her that she needed to be on her best behavior when he was within earshot of her very presence.

  The man demanded a lot.

  But he gave very little.

  “Sorry, I slept in,” Karine said dimly, barely managing to look up and meet his eyes.

  A cold anger stared back.

  “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. Do you not know how to read a clock?” Dima turned to Masha who still remained at the back of the room. A fear that accompanied her more often than not when she was in his vicinity welled in her throat when he asked Masha, “Well—you’re not a fucking idiot, yeah? You can tell me why she’s late, can’t you?”

  Karine wanted nothing more than to shrink away from Dima, and disappear. Except she couldn’t bear the idea that he would take out his anger on Masha simply because he knew he could get away with it easier than he could when it came to Karine.

  “It wasn’t her fault, it was all me,” Karine rushed to say, bringing his attention back to her. Even though it ached in her chest to be in his line of fire, she still breathed a silent sigh of relief that she’d managed to distract him from Masha. “I spent too long in the shower—I always do. I’m sorry. I wanted to look pretty for you.”

  All it took was a smile, and a bat of her drug-heavy lashes.

  Dima was a dangerous man, sure, but he was still just a man. His eyes traveled over her body, taking in the plunging neckline of her lace dress, the rise and fall of her breasts. His gaze lingered a little too long on her legs, and finally, he glanced back up at her.

  Satisfied.

  He arched a brow, sucked air through his teeth, and nodded once in reply to whether or not she had succeeded in her task of looking pretty.

  Masha had done a good job of selecting her outfit for today. Karine wasn’t even sure how she managed to put on this act for him. It was almost like muscle memory. As long as she kept Dima pleased at all times, and made sure he had no complaints in between, then everything was easier.

  She tried not to forget it.

  “I had to send the wedding planner away, but she’ll be back in a few hours,” Dima said, taking a few steps towards Karine, and she flinched. Just his proximity could provoke that reaction. She hoped he hadn’t noticed it, so she forced on a smile instead. He touched her hair, tucking in a few stray strands behind her ears. Her skin still crawled from the feeling his touch left behind, and she didn’t even have an explanation for it.

  Yes, she knew he could be hurtful.

  Violent, too.

  Cruel, even.

  But she couldn’t recall a single incident where he had been violent with her—he didn’t dare. She was still who she was, after all. Her last name meant something, of course. It still wasn’t enough to make Karine feel safe with Dima. He was a man she had known all her life because of his proximity and work with her father, but she still had to wonder if he was also just biding his time until she didn’t mean anything to anyone at all.

  What would happen then?

  “I promise I will be on schedule the next time,” Karine told him, still smiling demurely.

  He liked that.

  Her fake innocence.

  All that naivety.

  She couldn’t say it quite came off the same when her head wasn’t stuck in a cloud of pharmaceutical-making. Then again, if Dima knew her at all, he would have seen right through the bullshit.

  Another huge red flag that this entire engagement was going to end horribly for Karine. Was she expected to play this dumb, airheaded, constantly high housewife that Dima could use and abuse to his will forever?

  It made her sick.

  And she still didn’t get a say.

  “I have a meeting to get to—your father doesn’t like to wait,” Dima said, his fingers trailing from her hair until he was stroking her cheek with his thumb. She forced down the bile that rose up from her churning stomach. Maybe the cream cheese and bagel hadn’t settled quite right after all. “And then, we will talk to the wedding planner together. Hmm?”

  “Sure, whateve
r you like,” she repeated, trying her best to sound pleasant.

  Grateful, even.

  Definitely compliant.

  Karine kept balancing on a very tight rope—every interaction she had with Dima only served to show her how hard it was going to be for her to keep it up.

  “It won’t be long now until you’re officially mine.” Dima’s eyes narrowed on her while his mouth twisted in a smile that felt anything but comforting. “Three months.”

  She wished the prospect of getting married on the day she turned twenty-one filled her with joy. Instead, the dread became an ever-present, constantly growing weight that she couldn’t escape.

  Planning a wedding was supposed to be a happy and momentous time. The proper beginning of two people starting a life. Or that was certainly how marriage and love was presented to her from the people she dared to ask, and the few books and movies she’d been exposed to. She was vaguely aware of the idea of romance, love and a happy marriage, despite never having actually witnessed any of those things in people around her. In fact, there were no couples in her life to act as a reflection for her to consider.

  Either way, even if there weren’t any butterflies in her stomach when she looked into Dima’s face—was there supposed to be a pit there, too?

  That deep, sinking sensation.

  It just wouldn’t leave.

  Dima’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out to check the screen before saying, “I’ve gotta go, but you don’t go anywhere.”

  Karine froze that smile on her face as he left her side, and kept it firmly in place until he was finally gone from the room. Just like that, finally, she felt like she could breathe again. She continued to stare ahead at the empty space he had left behind, more unsteady and confused than ever.

  Masha was right there to save the day once more, and drag Karine from the darkening, spiral of her thoughts.

  “Please, at least finish the bagel,” Masha said.

  She’d almost forgotten about it. Masha already had what remained of the bagel and cream cheese ready to hand it to her.

  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 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.”