by Bethany-Kris
“They’ve been sniffing around—asking people questions about the shit that went down in Chicago,” Peter replied, shrugging, “A couple of agents trying to get a sit-down with the boss, or someone else. Maybe you. Who knows?”
“And if the FBI has somehow made a connection between me and the Yazovs, then Leonid and Dima can’t be far behind,” Roman muttered to himself. “That’s just fucking perfect.”
Not.
Peter didn’t offer Roman any other option when he said, “The order came down from your father—he wants you to head back to New York fast. Get the hell out of here before they find you here, and start watching your every move.”
Roman clenched his teeth so hard his jaw actually clicked.
“You’re leaving me here?”
Oh, Christ.
He’d become so absorbed in what Peter had to say that he hadn’t noticed her walk up behind him in no time at all. He thought he had a few more seconds with her out of earshot, but no. Not that it would have helped because he hadn’t even heard her steps approach. Karine was good at that—floating.
Roman whipped around to face her, and immediately saw the heartbroken expression on Karine’s beautiful face. Whatever hope and happiness she had built in the past hour evaporated into thin air. Her smile was gone, and it cut him deep.
Behind him, he could hear the bull shuffling away with a quiet, “Shit, sorry, man.”
He didn’t give the guy any more attention, instead focusing on Karine to say, “I have to go, but I’ll be back, just like I did last time. It’s no different—you can trust me.”
She moved closer to him, searching his eyes frantically for a lie. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep looking at her because this wasn’t going to end well. He could already tell—she was panicking.
“So, you’re just going for a meeting somewhere? Is it for a few hours, or—”
It was like a dagger was being thrust deep inside him and twisted into his heart before being ripped back out again. Emotional pain was just as real as physical, he was learning.
“No, not for a few hours. I have to go back home for a while. I’ll leave tomorrow, so we’ll have tonight together before I head out. At least.”
He offered that lamely.
She didn’t miss it.
Karine squinted, her brows dipping dangerously as her eyes flashed like lightning. Through tight lips, she asked, “For how long?”
“I don’t know,” he had to admit.
Not that he wanted to.
He wouldn’t lie, though.
Not to her.
She shook her head, and before he could reach for or stop her, Karine had twisted away from him and was running back in the direction of the lake.
He considered letting her go—but not for long.
Roman headed down the pathway after her, but not with quite as much speed. She was too close to the lake, and he’d seen that look in her eyes before when she first saw it—like she’d already decided that if things ever got worse, that’s where she’d be headed. Deep under those calm, dark waters. He didn’t trust her to not hurt herself, not when she felt like he was betraying her. Even if that wasn’t true. That didn’t mean her feelings weren’t quite real to her.
He reached her just at the bottom of the hill, some distance from the lake, thankfully. Catching her from behind, he pinned her to his chest. Her breaths came out hard, and he could feel her quivering, her shoulders heaving. She didn’t fight—too hard.
“Karine, stop, please, you need to talk to me,” he murmured in her ear, dragging in her floral scent with his next inhale. She always smelled like a wild meadow, fresh and free.
She relaxed quickly, sooner than he expected, really, her muscles lightening in his hold. She liked being held by him as much as he liked holding her. If only that was the case now. He loosened his grip on her, but that was a mistake. She slipped away from him.
“Karine, stop!” Roman grabbed her wrists that time, refusing to let her go even if she did flinch from his tight hold. “You’re not going to do this right now.”
His words didn’t help.
“You don’t have to worry, Roman,” Karine hissed, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to jump in the lake, I just want to get away from you.”
Fuck.
Those were the words to kill him.
That was all he needed to see.
Karine crying was his kryptonite. He released his grip, and she stepped away from him, but then she stopped. With eyes already reddened from the tears flowing freely down her cheeks, she glared. If only she’d just listen ... let him talk, then maybe he could explain—
“So, when were you going to tell me that you’ve brought me here just to leave me as soon as you could, huh?”
Her lips quivered, and he could tell it was hard for her to get the words out. But she believed them, too. Every single one of them. That’s what made this harder.
If only she would just let him hold her then he would try and make this better, but he couldn’t. She didn’t want him to. He held his hands up where she could see them, clear as day.
He was not a threat.
Not to her.
“I didn’t know when to bring it up,” he replied honestly, “Or when it would’ve been appropriate. I wanted to give you a chance to settle in here, first.”
“No. You were just going to disappear. That’s what your plan is. To avoid any conflict. I’m not stupid, Roman.”
He wished she didn’t move so quickly to wipe away the tears and then work so hard to hide the next round. The sight of her visibly struggling to hold back her hurt made him angry. Her weakness was not a vulnerability to him in the way she thought it was. It wasn’t something he was going to use, abuse, or otherwise.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Karine. Just abandon you, fucking never. I would have told you I was going to have to leave, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this soon. Circumstances have changed. That’s life, okay?”
She looked away from him, and for a moment, it felt like she was trying to pretend he didn’t exist. That hurt even worse; a million little slices over already-deep and bleeding cuts.
Roman stepped in her direction and was relieved that she didn’t step away. He hadn’t even told her about her father. She had no clue Maxim was dead. How was she going to react to that information? He wanted her to give him a chance to explain, but she still wouldn’t even look at him.
“Karine ...” he tried to say, urging her to look at him again.
She did.
When she glared at him, and then strode right past.
Karine headed up the hill again, and he didn’t need to be told to understand she didn’t want him following her. She still told him, anyway.
“Just leave me the fuck alone,” she called back, the words carrying to him in the wind.
Another thousand, invisible littles cuts were left in their wake. Roman stood there helpless to feel every single one of them while he watched her walk away.
TWELVE
The FBI agents had been on Demyan’s radar long before he was on theirs thanks to a contact he had with the bureau—or rather, a woman in the bed of a man from the bureau. It paid to know the right people.
As he sat behind the desk in his home office, waiting for the arrival of the two agents he expected to meet shortly, Demyan already knew more about them than they ever would about him. In fact, he spent his time flipping through a file on both of them while he watched the camera footage of his front gates where their black, nondescript sedan would soon appear. It was one of three security cameras he’d recently had installed on the property, in very carefully chosen locations for reasons like tonight.
He’d dealt with a few officials in the past—cops, more times than he could count, but a handful of agents from the FBI had crossed his path before, too. The two whose file had come attached with pictures were not familiar faces.
Fucking perfect.
More pests to watch.
He was sure they were fully aware of who he was—nature of the business, considering the FBI had been created for the very purpose of catching criminals like Demyan. His contact simply allowed him the very valuable time to do his research on them, too.
Maybe the bastards thought they were going to surprise him by turning up at his house in the middle of the day, but he had unfortunate news for them. This was exactly where Demyan wanted them. On his turf, on his terms. There wasn’t much he could do to avoid a confrontation with the FBI when their investigation related to the recent Yazov activity probably connected his son to it.
He could control how that confrontation happened, though.
At least, he’d acted fast enough to send Claire away. He didn’t want these fucks breathing anywhere in his wife’s vicinity.
He had two of his men in the room with him—one, a brigadier he considered a friend, and the man’s bull, just because. He could have chosen other men, higher ranking men in his bratva, but what mattered the most was that he had anyone there. Vor or vory who would be trusted enough to ensure his activity with the FBI didn’t break their code of conduct. He’d have gotten his father there, but the agents decided to speed up their visit by a day, and left Demyan with no choice but to call on who he had closest.
Demyan didn’t mind witnesses.
Both stood behind his chair. One—his friend—shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It was his cue. Demyan looked up at the screen to see a black car drive up to the gates. A bull stationed there went through the instructions to ask a few general questions before letting them through, despite the badge they flashed in his man’s face. As if that made a fucking difference.
Demyan shuffled the pages back into the file in front of him, unhurried and already over the meeting before it could properly begin, and handed it back to one of the men behind him.
He didn’t like doing this. Beyond the fact that it was a fucking waste of his time to sit down with agents he had no intention of actually engaging, it meant putting their operation at risk. But it had to be done.
Especially if he was going to protect Roman, and the girl.
Christ.
Couldn’t forget Karine.
Claire had been all too happy to let him know just how much she already liked her. He was entirely unsurprised because he didn’t expect anything different from his wife after he’d let it slip that he was positive Roman was more than just interested in the young woman.
It was more than that for him, though. Maxim was dead, and while he didn’t feel like he owed the man anything, someone had to keep his daughter safe. If it was Vera, Demyan’s daughter, he would expect someone to do the same.
The empty glass in front of Demyan was finally noticed by one of the men behind him, and then filled with vodka without a word. He picked it up, and took a sip, and then another as he waited for the inevitable arrival of his guests.
He considered downing the glass.
It would be his third.
Nah.
No more, he told himself as he put the glass back where it belonged, still half-full so his man didn’t go for another refill when it didn’t need it.
Demyan needed to think straight—like fuck would an official trip him up in his own home. That just wouldn’t happen.
The fifteen minutes it took before there was finally a knock on his door went by in silence. The Avdonin family estate was big, the home a maze. It took them time to arrive at his office, but Demyan was as ready as he would ever be.
The bull rounded the desk and headed for the door, opening it and stepping out for just long enough to allow the agents access to the office. He retook his post without introducing himself, or even meeting their guests’ stares after they had entered the space, badges in hand.
Two men in dark suits. Dark sunglasses hanging off their front pockets. Hair in buzzcuts. Practically clones of one another if the man to the left wasn’t an inch shorter than the other. Unimpressive, basically.
“Mr. Avdonin, we’re sorry to bother you today and just show up like this to your home, but we were in the state and had some questions. I’m agent Packard and this is agent—”
“Mahon,” Demyan said, bored. “I know who you both are.”
The men had strode right in and stood at a respectable distance while Demyan remained seated at his desk. The two behind him didn’t make a move or speak, either.
If the agents were surprised or taken aback by his demeanor, or the number of men in the house alongside the boss, then they were careful not to show it.
Demyan’s lips curled in a smile. They had no idea that they weren’t in control.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” Demyan asked, gesturing to the two chairs that had been set up across from the desk.
The men glanced at each other, nodding in silent conversation before they took their seats. He’d considered not offering seats at all and making the assholes stand, but people tended to trust a kind hand before a mean one.
“We were hoping to speak to you in private, Mr. Avdonin,” Agent Packard said, tipping his gaze in the direction of the men behind Demyan.
He only shrugged, and rested deeper in his chair. “I will not be asking my men to leave the room. If you’ve come all the way here to speak with me, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to leave without actually doing so, yes? Which you will—go on, ask me to speak to you alone one more time.”
Agent Mahon shifted in his seat while Packard offered an anxious smile.
“Of course, Mr Avdonin,” the shorter, Packard, said, “whatever you’re comfortable with. Either way, this is just an informal chat.”
Informal.
Right.
Demyan wouldn’t even bother to entertain that nonsense, but his gaze pierced between the two men, taking in every nervous jump of a knee or the way Mahon wiped away the sweat on his upper lip with the back of his hand. It didn’t feel good to slowly realize a situation was not going as one planned.
Except his.
Demyan was just fine.
“What are we chatting about today, gentlemen?” he asked, gesturing for one of the two agents to continue. “Cut the bullshit, if you will, and get straight to the point. None of us have a lot of time to spend here, do we?”
That made the two sit straighter.
Good.
Thankfully, the agents got the hint.
“Your good friend—Maxim Yazov. We’re sure you’ve heard of his passing,” Packard said while Mahon simply stared at Demyan.
“I wouldn’t say we were good friends, but yes, word has made its way through the circles about his death.”
“We are just trying to interview people connected with him to see if they have any insight on what took place in Chicago when his estate was burned—”
“I’m sorry?” Demyan asked, cocking one eyebrow high.
“The fire. Come on, Mr. Avdonin, you know about the fire. If you know of his death, then you know of the fire,” Packard replied, tossing his partner a smirk.
Nice try.
“I’m sorry,” Demyan repeated, “that you thought you should come all this way to ask me about a fire that happened while I was in New York. Yes, I did hear about the fire, too. Terrible thing. The Yazov family has my condolences.”
The agents stared at him, hoping he’d offer them something more, let a little extra slip, but he didn’t think so. A few seconds passed before the agents decided to throw another question Demyan’s way.
“Yes, terrible business. They’re still investigating the incident,” Packard continued.
“The scene, you mean?” Demyan asked, weaving his fingers together on his desk. “The estate—there’s a reason to be there this long? Mustn’t have been an accident, then.”
Mahon shifted in his chair again, while Packard’s jaw twitched with his irritation at using the wrong word—letting Demyan flip the script. The agent certainly wouldn’t want to come out of the meeting needing to admit that he said more than he should have.
/> He didn’t. Demyan knew exactly what he was saying. He’d planned every word.
“Do you have reason to believe a crime has been committed, Mr. Avdonin?” Mahon asked, leaning forward a bit in the chair with his hands clasped over his knees as he regarded Demyan. “I’m sure you know the reason we’re here in the first place is only because your son was recently in Chicago, and affiliated to work with the Yazov organization. See, we thought the fact he disappeared shortly before the fire might have been ... related. Do you have some information you can share with us?”
Demyan hoped that the fact he smiled coldly back at the man, entirely unconcerned and unbothered, told the agent nothing he said was surprising. That he knew exactly why the two were there, and they would leave with much the same information they came with—none. He had to smile. Whatever else he felt about them, his disdain mostly born from the fact they were the law and he was lawless, they didn’t appear to be idiots. Did they really think he would just tell them what he knew?
Because they asked?
“I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how many miles separates New York and Chicago,” Demyan returned. “How could I know anything that happened there?”
“You were connected to the man. We have the intel to prove it, Demyan, and the fact your son was doing business in the Yazov territory confirms it. Try again.”
“What, you want me to say that I met Maxim Yazov a few times over the years? Fine, what difference does a friendship make?”
“And you were never in business together?”
This time, the question came from Mahon.
“Never,” Demyan said, never breaking eye contact with the man. “We don’t share the same ideals on business, to be frank. And no, I don’t need you to confirm the fire was intentionally set to know it. The little that I did understand about Maxim Yazov was enough for me to know he would never set fire to his own house, just to kill himself in the process. A king doesn’t just burn his castle.”
Not one like Maxim.
The staring contest between the men stretched on, as did the resounding silence. Demyan simply followed the agents with his gaze when the two stood up from their chairs after passing one another a quick glance. He no longer bothered to hide the contempt in his stare, either.