HE HATED BEING RIGHT SOMETIMES. Too bad money blinded him from following his gut instinct. He hated being so self-assured that he thought he could meet the infamous Russian mafia boss and have the option of walking away.
“He’s in here.” The officer swung the door open and stepped to the side.
Possibly it was his heightening sense of paranoia getting the best of him, but he could swear the cop didn’t even want to be in the same room with the man.
The Russian was cuffed to the table but leaned back in his chair, chest wide, as far as the chain would allow. He cupped one hand over the back of the other.
For being forty-five, he looked older than his years. His shoulder-length brown hair clung to his head as if slicked with grease. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks concave, giving prominence to his jaw bone, but it wasn’t his physical attributes that changed perception—it was the raw energy in the room.
Dimitre Petrov snapped his fingers, and Bryan was torn from his thoughts.
“Lexan, da? You’ll be my lawyer.”
Dimitre kept his eyes on him, and when he didn’t respond right away, he made a point of directing Bryan’s attention to the clock on the wall.
Bryan supposed time held a different value when facing the possibility of life in prison.