The Promise (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 2), Bethany-Kris [top 50 books to read .txt] 📗

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