The Promise (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 2) by Bethany-Kris (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

He couldn’t feel the bleeding slice on the side of his face, but the blood dripping down his chin to make a pool of red on the cracked pavement made him aware it was there. His own blood was the one warm thing he felt when it smeared his chin, but he couldn’t get his hand up to touch his face. He couldn’t even seem to sit up straight.

The piercing throb at the back of his head, threatening to split his skull open, made him think the whiplash must have given him a concussion. The echo of his childhood doctor telling his father he’s going to turn his brain to mush, Demyan, get him out of impact sports suddenly filled his mind.

He knew that pain well.

Roman blinked furiously, trying to see beyond his hands in the glass. As the seconds ticked passed, he realized the large white spot he’d been staring into was really a bright headlight shining straight at his face from only feet away.

He couldn’t keep his head steady, the wobbling of his neck and his heavy eyelids promised darkness was coming soon. Again.

That couldn’t be good.

Then, two figures appeared, cutting through the light. At first, he could just see silhouettes against the brightness while he focused on counting steady breaths. He knew he couldn’t sleep, especially if he wanted to. It was only when one of the men stepped closer that he discerned Dima’s face.

Well.

Shit.

“I hope you’re taking a good look, motherfucker.” Dima’s words came out cold, and calm. In a way Roman hadn’t heard him speak before. It only added to the surrealness of his situation, making him wonder if this was all a dream, but no. He couldn’t be that lucky. “Just thought you should know—we’re in New York, and we need to speak to your boss. It appears you’ve taken something that belongs to me, and I want it back.”

Roman let out what he hoped was a steady breath, but his chest still rattled against the metal and pavement. There was no question in Dima’s demand—he wasn’t here on belief.

So, Roman didn’t bother to lie. Not that he had the strength.

“I haven’t taken anything of yours. She doesn’t belong to you,” he replied, barely keeping back the groan forming. His ribs were in bad shape, too. Every breath made it more apparent.

“I want my fiancée back,” Dima said, the last word cutting from his mouth like spit. “Consider this your only warning—you’re lucky you even survived this one. Let’s be honest here.”

Dima stepped back, and the headlights that had been lighting up Roman’s whole line of vision were suddenly turned off. Roman peered into the darkness, but he couldn’t see where Dima went, or who the other man was that had stood silently beside him.

Just as suddenly as they’d appeared, they disappeared, too. Only the crunch of rubber told him they were pulling away, and he wasn’t quite sure what happened next.

Everything faded black again.

• • •

Dima probably didn’t expect Roman to be found quickly, but that wasn’t the case. He learned later, while the doctor paid off by his family opted to glue the cut shut on his cheek, that Demyan was expecting an attack on him after getting last minute information on Dima’s whereabouts.

Too close to home.

The bull staying at the lodge, sent by his father—through direction of his mother—came up on the accident mere minutes after it happened, and the Chicago pricks had already fucked off.

Roman might have been able to stave off the attack, or the worst of it, had he been plugged in even enough to get a phone call ahead of time. But his hubris wasn’t as kind as it could be.

Roman had been taken directly to the private clinic of one of the doctors on the Avdonin payroll. Demyan and Marky were waiting there for him, along with a handful of other men that had been nearby when the call came in.

His father was concerned, Roman could see it in his eyes—but Demyan did a good job of keeping it under the surface.

“Just listen to the doctor—stop being a shit. You need to let them finish cleaning the rest or you’ll get a goddamn infection,” Demyan said.

Roman shot his father a painful sneer as he was helped into a wheelchair. The cut on his cheek hadn’t quite stopped bleeding, so the doctor went for that first. But only to keep from making a worse mess.

Three nurses waited in the large room where Roman was taken despite his protests. This was nothing vodka, sleep, and some painkillers wouldn’t fix. He could clean out his wounds in a hot shower and dose them with alcohol. The screaming ring in his ears had yet to stop, and the pain in his head was at an all-time high.

Roman in pain was Roman angry.

Simple as that.

He barely contained his snappiness and frustration as the doctor fired off commands to two of the nurses before turning his questions on Roman. There wasn’t much to say.

The man wanted to know what hurt?

Shit, look at him.

It all hurt.

Demyan, Marky, and the one bull that had pulled Roman from the wreckage scattered around the room, keeping a close eye on the doctor’s proceedings. The attack had changed everything, just like that, and now nobody could be trusted. The bratva was on high alert which meant the city would feel the impact, too.

More attention.

Great.

There was too much silence in the room. The only sound was made by the doctor while he carried out his examination once he figured out Roman really wasn’t in the mood to carry any kind of decent conversation. The nurses tended to his wounds and cuts. He had to endure more stitches, and creams. Bandages, too. A lot of hands touching him. He hated the feeling of being poked and prodded, even if it was to his benefit.

Seeing his son’s growing irritation, Demyan uttered from the other side of the room, “Behave.”

Christ.

It felt like he was ten again when he’d popped his