The Marriage (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 3), Bethany-Kris [books for 8th graders txt] 📗

The man’s son, on the other hand, was apparently freely raging around New York—and God knew where else—like a maniac, without reprise from his father. None of this shit would have happened with Maxim as the boss of his organization.

If their two families ever encountered a problem in the past, they would have met up in person and talked it out. That came with mutual respect, but Demyan supposed they had all lost that façade a long time ago.

Maximum outcome with minimum casualty—that was how he liked to run the show, but with a flock of headless fucks running around doing whatever they wanted ... Demyan doubted this would end well.

When did it ever?

“Are you awake?”

He heard his wife’s soft voice beside him and finally opened his eyes. Other than his children, Claire was the only person in the world he’d start his day for when he didn’t particularly care to.

The effects of exhaustion in his limbs from only a few hours of sleep made them heavy and needing stretched. When he did, eyeing his wife standing beside their bed, the rushing blood made him lightheaded. It wasn’t just his body that was tired, but his mind, too.

Mental and physical.

He couldn’t fix one without fucking with the other.

“I am now,” he murmured to Claire.

“Sorry, I made you some French toast and didn’t want it to go cold. I wasn’t sure how long you’d want to sleep.”

Demyan sat up in bed, letting the soft cream-colored sheets fall down his bare chest while his wife placed a tray on the bed. With a gigantic mug of coffee in her hands, she slipped in beside him under the covers.

All it took was her side-long look tossed his way, and Demyan could tell she had something on her mind. Nearly three decades of marriage with this woman, relearning what it meant to fall in love time and time again, gave him that privilege.

He had a pretty good idea what had his wife quiet, and yearning to talk.

“You’re thinking about the girl,” he said.

Demyan picked up a triangular piece of French toast, and inhaled the scent of vanilla and cinnamon sugar. His mouth watered. Nobody cooked like his wife.

“Our daughter-in-law, you mean,” Claire corrected, arching a brow.

At least, she was amused.

“I knew he was taken with her, but I didn’t realize he would take it so far that he’d marry her,” he said.

Claire sighed, and sipped her coffee. “She’s a sweet girl who has endured a lot. If you ask me, she makes a nice addition to the family.”

“You like her.”

That’s what she should just say.

His wife only lifted one shoulder in reply to that, and then said, “More importantly, our son seems to love her.”

At one dark point in his life, Demyan would have said love wasn’t worth the pain that sometimes came with it. But he’d come far enough—or rather, lived long enough—that his scars had been numbed over the years.

And his wife helped.

With the love deal.

“She’s also a lot of work,” Demyan replied, then groaned around a bite of French toast that was worth waking up for. After chewing, because he knew damn better than to talk with his mouth full around Claire, he added, “He’ll be lucky to come out of this alive. Sometimes, I think you overlook what scares you to see what pleases you, sweetheart. You know that’s going to make reality harder to handle when it catches up, huh?”

The only unfortunate part of having tied himself to this woman for life was the fact that sometimes, Demyan was the only one who told her the harsh truth. Everyone else was too scared too—worried they might upset the one woman he’d likely kill for.

So, the task was always left to him.

It was what it was.

Demyan loved her enough to do it.

Claire said nothing, chewing on her bottom lip while she stared out of the window in their room. Letting him eat his breakfast in peace, Demyan was nearly halfway through his plate when she spoke again.

“I am proud of him, Demyan.”

He didn’t reply.

She shrugged, adding only, “I didn’t know if he was truly capable of it—but he can stand up for what and who he believes in, as long as it’s what he wants. That’s better than nothing, Demyan. At least he stands for something. And you’re right. Karine is a lot of work, but it looks like he’s the only one who makes her happy, so who are we, or anyone, to take it away?”

*

“He wants a meeting,” Pavel said.

Demyan, shuffling through the pages of the documents relating to a shipment of weapons he had to proverbially sign off on, glanced up at the sound of his spy in the doorway.  “Who?”

He hadn’t been paying attention.

Work had to keep moving, too.

When Pavel started shuffling his feet from one to the other—he knew it, then. Demyan expected uncomfortable news. Older than dirt, Pavel had once been an enforcer for Demyan’s father but eventually worked his way into the highest ranks to become his boss’s best spy. Collecting money, or keeping an eye on all the men in the organization and reporting back if something needed handled. He knew the man well, and his mannerisms.

The feet shuffle meant bad news.

“Dima. He says he wants face time.”

Demyan cocked a brow—all this time Pavel had been trying to get a word through to Leonid in Chicago, or someone that would get New York a direct line to the boss, and Dima was the one who finally answered?

“Fucking Dima? What do I want with a pup?”

His youth was the only excuse Demyan could really give the prick, and feel like it might be justified. No man with any age or sense in this business cared to go on like Dima apparently did. Not unless there wasn’t another option.

There was almost always another option.

Demyan hated to think about it, but even killing Roman when he had the chance could have ended all of this. What reason would New York have