Page 70 of The Marriage

He didn’t even blink at his father’s shout. “I get it, you’re pissed. I didn’t listen to you and jumped on a jet. You can be an asshole to me without taking it out on her.”

Demyan’s gaze burned. “Back to that woman—who knows what information she has or who she’s feeding it to? We need to find her.”

Roman wasn’t stupid.

“I don’t know, but I’ll start somewhere. I just need some time to think.”

“Perfect because you’ve given her a two-day start here, Roman. You know she’s taken stuff from my drawers, too, yes?”

Roman couldn’t remember if Marky mentioned that or not—he also wasn’t surprised. “Like what?”

“In my desk. Random papers, a file on a shipment deal. Some contracts; an old day planner. Looks like she took whatever she could get her hands on, really,” Demyan grumbled. “Quite a bit is missing, actually.”

Shit.

Roman couldn’t consider what that meant, asking only, “Why didn’t anyone keep an eye on her?”

“You brought her into our lives!” his father roared, Roman’s defensive comment throwing Demyan over the edge. “She came here because you decided to bring her, never once letting anyone believe she was anything but harmless. Why would I think I had to watch her every fucking move?”

“Who put me in Chicago in the first damn place?” Roman asked back, eerily calm.

“I didn’t make you steal Dima’s car, son.”

No one in the room even blinked at the spat between father and son. Demyan dragged in a heavy breath, and grunted at the men, “Get the fuck out, yeah?”

Nobody needed to be told twice.

Roman wanted to leave, too, but he knew he couldn’t. He was in too deep now, and this was his responsibility. Life was better when his father didn’t concern him directly with the family’s business. Back when he dedicated all his time and energy to the chop shop.

Demyan stuffed his burning cigar into a crystal ashtray, crushing it down with as much force as he could.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” he asked when the room had finally cleared, and the door clicked shut behind the last man.

Roman assumed he was talking about his recent visit to Karine. “I had to see her. We’re not in a position where I can leave her with unfinished business between us. I won’t apologize for it.”

“Not Karine—I’m so used to you ignoring rules. You got high, Roman. You’re using. Again.”

He didn’t speak.

Demyan slammed his hand down to the desk, demanding, “Well—at least have the decency to lie about it if nothing else!”

What would be the point?

Demyan called Marky in shortly after because Roman’s silence pushed him to that point. He had nothing to say for himself. Not yet, anyhow.

“For fuck’s sake,” Roman muttered under his breath when Marky strolled into the office with a tight smile. It was the men peeking into the office—who could probably hear every word his father shouted—that irritated Roman the worst.

“And what were you doing when my son was snorting lines of poison into his brain?” Demyan barked.

“Stop it,” Roman said, stepping in before his friend could even get a word out. “I’m not a fucking kid—I’m a grown man who can make my own choices. And for what it’s worth, he was there. He tried to stop me. This isn’t his fault so leave him alone.”

Marky’s defense while his friend stood there was to light a cigarette, shove his hands in his pockets, and otherwise, say nothing.

Marky wasn’t going to talk back to the boss, but he also wouldn’t throw Roman under the bus. His best option was to say nothing at all, and let whatever happened, happen.

Demyan plucked up the ashtray off the table and threw it at the wall where it shattered into thousands of little shards, falling to the floor. “How much more of your shit am I supposed to keep from your mother?”

“None of it,” Roman said, shrugging. “It’s over. I’m not touching that shit again.”