Page 96 of The Marriage

Maxim nodded and looked away.

“But it doesn’t matter now, you can tell her yourself,” he added. “Why didn’t you?”

“Nyet,” came the strong refusal. “I was never worthy of saying it.”

That was a mindset Demyan couldn’t comprehend.

He knew something about unspoken words and lost promises; he’d saw what life looked like when it didn’t turn out exactly how one planned. He remembered that clearly—but also what it was like to feel something real for someone again. To love his children unconditionally.

Except, Demyan suspected Maxim didn’t share the same growth. Somewhere along the lines, the man had been stunted in his grief ... did love start to feel a little dangerous?

Not quite worth the risk?

“I want you to do it for me, Demyan. I want you to promise you’ll tell her someday. Soon,” Maxim pressed as he met Demyan’s gaze. “It’s important ... I just can’t do it.”

Demyan had to nod, although he didn’t understand why. Compelled by the man’s insistence, he agreed.

In the shadows of the kitchen, the two were so quiet that he could hear shuffling of feet somewhere outside the space. The sound gained Maxim’s attention, too, drawing his gaze to the entryway.

“I’ll tell her,” Demyan told Maxim, wanting his stare back on him so that maybe he could get those answers for his son, “but I want you to know that you’ll kill my son if something happens to that girl. Where is she?”

“Exactly where she needs to be.”

Maxim delivered that news with a hollow tone that left Demyan cold right down to his bones. Disbelief washed through him just as fast, but didn’t leave him any warmer.

“What have you done?” Demyan asked.

Because nothing else made sense.

Demyan was still missing something.

Maxim dropped his gaze, saying, “You’ve always been too smart for this business.”

Fuck that.

He wasn’t going in that circle again.

Demyan’s fists hit the table hard. “This is starting to feel like a fucking set up to me—like you’re forcing me to walk into another pile of shit I don’t see. Give me some fucking answers.”

Maxim’s attention fixated on the gun between the two sitting in the middle of the table, although closer to Demyan.

“You’ll have to ... get rid of it,” Maxim said. “And the car outside, too.”

Demyan’s brow sipped low. “What?”

“Your bratva will have to claim the killing of Dima.”

The killing—

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I am,” Maxim returned just as fast, “you’re just not getting all the details.”

And when were they ever important?

Demyan heard what the man didn’t say.

“What are you really here for, Maxim?”