Page 38 of The Promise

“People complain about the stuff in the can unless it’s for pie, so,” the short brunette replied with a shrug.

“Because it sucks—whipped cream, too.”

Demyan grinned to himself before saying, “Hazelnut spread—anything else is good for toppings, too. The usual. Thank you.”

Before the woman could even think she’d begun earning the likely hundred-dollar tip his father would leave on the table, she was shooed with a wave of Demyan’s hand and nothing more. While he would discuss the weather or food, if he had to, nobody could say the man liked to.

Dismissed, the waitress headed away from their table without as much as a glance over her shoulder. Demyan worked on adding sugar and cream from the table to the famously strong black coffee, telling his son at the same time, “You were thinking, you said—about what?”

Right.

Now or never.

“Our property in Vermont,” Roman replied, already making his father’s brow dip dangerously, “... maybe that’s where Karine could stay. Instead of moving from one hotel to the next in the city. I think that’s part of her issue, why she can’t sleep. She doesn’t stay in one place long enough to get comfortable, so someone is always up at one hour or the next. If you get what I mean.”

Demyan picked up his coffee and took a big gulp, holding the steaming mug against his lips long enough for Roman to think it might burn, but his father had no reaction. Pain, he had learned a long time ago, was something his father used. Something he had managed to control.

But other than the knot in his father’s brow, Demyan offered no other response to Roman’s suggestion of taking Karine to their private family property in Vermont. The place was sacred—to his grandparents, even his father. For reasons he was sure he didn’t even understand, but the fact his father didn’t speak for more than a few seconds had Roman’s heart thundering loud in his ears.

“What’s happening in Chicago—why did you call me here?” he finally asked.

Clearly, something was happening.

So, let’s get straight to the point, then, Roman thought. His father glanced up at him with his jaw tight, muttering, “I spoke to Maxim last night. The fucker finally returned my calls. Imagine.”

“And?”

Demyan chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Honestly? I don’t know anymore than I did before he called me. I have more questions than I do answers, and a part of me thinks that might have been the point.”

Picking the coffee up for another sip, his father pulled it away only to say, “He ended the call about as fast as he started it. He made some strange—well, he apologized to me, and told me to convey to Karine that he loved her.”

That last bit came out quieter than the rest. Offered to Roman as if he should consider it more carefully than the rest, and he did. He didn’t miss it, but it didn’t impress him ... considering Maxim’s treatment of his daughter .

Some things couldn’t be forgiven.

To him.

Sitting a bit stiffer in the booth, Roman mutter under his breath, “What fucking shit is he on, or—”

“I got word about what happened last night at the Yazov mansion,” his father interrupted before Roman’s anger could make itself properly known. “Presumably straight after Maxim called me.”

That froze him in the chair, though.

Cold.

“There was a big fire. Everything burned down. The mansion is as good as gone, or so I was told.”

“The fuck,” Roman said. “Seriously?”

Demyan didn’t break his stare. “Roman, they found remains. Everyone else was apparently evacuated. I’m serious, yeah?”

“Everyone except?”

Because his father was talking like he already knew, and if that was the case, Roman would really like him to spit it the fuck out.

“Maxim. Unofficial word is that it’s confirmed. The official side could take weeks to make the rounds, and I’m comfortable going with what I’ve got on the unofficial side of things, frankly.”

Well ...