Page 37 of The Promise

“I’ll be back,” he had told her, then, still waiting for her to stop hiding herself from him, “As long as you keep asking me to do it—I’ll keep coming back. I promise. You trust me, don’t you?”

It took a few more seconds before Karine had turned her face out of the pillows so he could see the tears that had welled in her eyes. Something else to cut into a heart that he thought had been dead for years.

So much for that.

“That’s the thing I’m scared of most,” she had whispered before he left to meet up with his father, “I trust you too much, Roman, and I don’t know if I should.”

That might have been easier to swallow had he not seen the look on her face when he still needed to walk out of that bedroom.

Roman wasn’t so lucky.

• • •

The longer Roman was made to wait for his father, the more he regretted leaving the hotel suite in such a hurry. It didn’t help that his paranoid nature chose then to remind him the longer he hung around in a public place, the bigger of a target he became for any Yazov man who might be watching him.

If they were watching.

Roman didn’t know.

That’s why he was a paranoid fucker. Not knowing drove him insane. There was far too much happening that he didn’t know a thing about in Chicago to feel at all safe.

He’d already called Marky to keep watch outside the diner, and his friend had arrived at the same time as himself, along with another guy from an Avdonin brigadier’s crew. At least, he could rely on his best friend being punctual.

But apparently, not his father. Not that he would ever make that particular comment to Demyan’s face. Roman was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.

And he was being a bit of a prick, to be fair. Demyan had a lot of other shit to deal with that didn’t involve Roman and his manufactured problems that stemmed from a selfish want to feed his own desire.

Karine.

His bored—but careful—gaze darted to the window. Roman’s booth wasn’t directly next to the glass, so they easily avoided being seen unless someone was peering inside, but it meant he couldn’t keep an eye outside, either. Well, not the full scope. Only a portion wasn’t enough to soothe his nerves.

Marky would do his job.

And the other man.

It was all about trust, wasn’t it?

Distracted by the chaotic mess inside his mind, Roman didn’t even notice when Demyan finally showed up until he slid into the other side of the booth with a quick, tight smile while his hands worked to unbutton the heavy tweed jacket he wore over his suit blazer. His father had the unique ability to make a low-key entrance when he wanted to. He was also a natural at attracting the room’s attention at times. Damn near the second his father sat down, all three waitresses working the diner’s floor turned their booth’s way until the one closest to their position seemed to win the contest.

“Just like old times,” he said while Demyan surveyed the diner with a fond softness to his stare.

Demyan was also quick to check the windows—and the fact there was nothing to see from their favorite booth. “Well, mostly. Some things still changed, son. We certainly did.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Roman also didn’t want to get into that subject with his father at the moment when he had more pressing matters to deal with first. Undoubtedly, Demyan wanted to discuss Maxim and what he’d found out about the Yazov bratva, or the current events in Chicago, but he needed to get his idea across first.

Something that was just as important—even if only to him.

“I’ve been giving this some thought,” he said before his father could start the conversation where he wanted to while the waitress moved to pour a cup of black coffee for Demyan.

Roman said it at the right time because the presence of the waitress assured his father wouldn’t discuss anything but the food and weather around an unknown female. At their silence, the waitress smiled—bubbly and sing-song—with a greeting already on the tip of her tongue.

He assumed that kindness and personable attitude worked with most other people, but Demyan didn’t even met the woman’s gaze when she asked, “What can I get for you guys?”

His father didn’t hesitate to reply, “A stack of pancakes.”

Roman nodded, adding, “Blueberries only for fruit. Do they still make the whipped cream?”