Page 72 of The Promise

Clearly, the agents hadn’t given his father a choice in the matter.

“I thought you had it under control,” he said, stepping in beside a scowling Demyan on the elevator.

“I did have it under control. For over two weeks. It’s time you met with them, and shut them up for at least another few. I don’t like it, but it was going to happen eventually.”

Roman brushed a hand through his hair in frustration while the others packed into the elevator together. The lawyers stepped in before one of his father’s bulls followed them in, too.

“My other man went up with them to the room,” Demyan explained.

“Say nothing, or very little. They have nothing to make you talk, anyway. If they had any proof, they wouldn’t be demanding an informal chat.”

The lawyer who offered that nice piece of information while the elevator climbed floors earned himself a glare from Roman. He knew how to handle officials; he’d been doing this shit—or watching other men do it—for his entire goddamn life.

“I didn’t intend on speaking to them at all, actually,” he snapped back, “and one might think the fee we pay to keep you on retainer would keep any informal meetings off the table in the first fucking place, huh?”

He could have delivered that insult in a softer manner, but he didn’t have the patience or care, really.

“Well, it’s happening now, so you should be prepared,” Demyan interjected.

The elevator doors slid open, and they all stepped out to the corridor in pairs of two, except for the bull who exited first to check the hall.

“What do they want to fucking know?” Roman asked.

Wasn’t that what mattered here? He waited for an answer while he and his father led the way to the suite at the end.

“About what you’d expect. If you have any connection with the Yazovs. What you know about the fire. What business we have with them.”

“And what have you told them?”

“Nothing,” Demyan replied.

The two of them exchanged a quick look before Roman swiped his card through the lock and pushed the door open. Everyone else followed him inside.

The two agents were already seated around the coffee table in the sitting room that greeted the guests upon entrance. Neither man stood up to greet Roman, or the men behind him.

“Roman Avdonin,” the man on the left said, his badge already in his palm and facing out. “Special Agent Packard.”

Neither man extended their hands and Roman stood back, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants. There was no need for a nice to meet you here. No doubt, these agents had seen his face plastered on their cork boards for years.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Why waste time?

The faster they were gone, the better. Even though nobody made a move he could sense the shiftiness and disapproval in the movement and murmurs of lawyers behind him. If only Roman gave a single shit.

“We just wanted to talk,” the other agent said, shrugging lightly. “Like we did with your father some time ago. Maybe clarify a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Chicago.”

“Apparently, it’s very windy up there,” Roman replied dully.

Neither agent seemed very impressed by his dry humor.

“Specifically, we would like to discuss your recent trip to Chicago,” Packard explained, not even taking the bait.

Roman shrugged. “I had a friend to visit, so I went up there for a few weeks. What’s the big fucking deal?”