Page 9 of The Promise

At the door of his smaller lobby, he waited to greet his father when he emerged from the elevator. A minute later, Demyan stepped out followed by the bull who was never too far away from his boss. The man kept his distance from the two as Demyan came closer to his son, and also his eye on the boss at all times.

Even in his son’s home.

The man was never safe.

Demyan strode past the leather bucket chairs in the small lobby with not a hint on his face that he was surprised his son was back in New York. He hid it well, but Roman still found the concern his father tried to hide in the way the man’s gaze roamed over him from head to toe. It was a hard pill to swallow to know he was bruised and battered, and there wasn’t anyway to hide it.

Roman stood back, tipping his head at his father in one quick acknowledgement. “Papa.”

“You look ... sore,” Demyan commented. “Why?”

Where did he start?

Maybe the reason he didn’t know where to begin was because his father most likely wouldn’t even understand. He couldn’t start with Maxim and the agreement without going through the lead-up, and that was just as messy. Things that were simple for other people—black and white things like rules—were a lot more complicated for Roman.

Always had been.

“I’m fine,” he replied.

Demyan came to a stop in front of his son where Roman stood in the half-opened apartment doorway. He could have walked right on through to the living area, but he didn’t. It was the scrutiny of his gaze that focused on the blooming bruises crawling around Roman’s wrists where he had shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy sweats. He had bothered to put on a shirt, but that was only to hide the worst of the bruises.

The bull took his position in the hallway where he could keep his sights on his boss, but still closer to the elevator than the two men.

“Those marks don’t scream fine,” his father murmured.

“You should see my ribcage.”

His sarcastic joke flew right over his father’s head because Demyan didn’t even blink. The arch of his brow said he wasn’t entirely pleased, though. It was then that his father moved beyond him in the doorway to step inside without waiting for permission, and Roman was fast on his heels.

It took everything in him to keep from tensing up or crushing his molars from the pressure of his clenched jaw while his father walked into the brightly sunlit space. Not because he was there, but what Roman expected his father to immediately notice.

Or rather, who.

Demyan spun around on his heels fast, his earlier calm façade gone. He hadn’t even spotted Karine—didn’t give himself enough time to before his concern overweighed his need to keep up the image. “So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on, Roman, or will I have to embarrass you by asking specific questions?”

Right to the point, as usual.

It wasn’t even the tone—that you will listen, you will hear me tone—his father used that made Roman’s spine straighten and his hackles raise. He didn’t even think Demyan could help it; authority coated everything he did because it had to. That didn’t mean his son was any better at dealing with it than he had been as a fourteen-year-old troublemaker with a serious disrespect for anyone in power.

That hadn’t gotten better.

Except this time, it wasn’t so much the tone Demyan used as it was the decibel he spoke at. He had no idea Karine was sleeping mere feet away, or that he even had a reason to lower his voice.

That didn’t change the fact that Roman didn’t want to wake Karine. She clearly needed as much rest as she could get. He seriously doubted the coming days were going to be easy, for different reasons.

“We can talk,” Roman snapped, his own words hushed but not hiding their warning, “but you need to keep your voice down.”

Demyan tipped his head a bit to the side, saying only, “Excuse me.”

He didn’t even ask it.

A clear try that again.

Roman didn’t bother, glancing in Karine’s direction instead, letting that do the work for him. His father followed the action, and finally, he found the sleeping form on the chaise near the windows. At least, the light had shifted just enough to be off Karine’s face. Not that it had seemed to bother her, but he didn’t think that would be comfortable. Sleeping, or not.

It took Demyan a few seconds.

Then, more.