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“She’s the mother of my child. I won’t listen to you disrespect her.”
The words are out before I’ve decided if it’s the best way to break the news.
Not much startles or surprises my mother. She married a man she knew would become aPakhan. Betrayal and infidelity and secrets and lies are all expected, not surprising. Bloody shirts and brandishing weapons were always her way of life. She’s spent the years since the attack that wiped out the rest of our family badgering me about getting married and having children of my own.
And yet…she looks shocked by the revelation that I have one.
“How far along is she?”
I immediately realize what she’s assumed. “She’s not pregnant.” There’s a flash of confusion that quickly disappears as I keep talking. “She had the baby eight years ago. I met her while I was at UPenn. I left before she knew she was pregnant. Alex ran into her a few weeks ago. She told him…and he told me.”
My mother looks away and sends another stream of smoke up toward the ceiling, silently processing. “Boy or girl?”
I should have anticipated that would be her next question. My mother isn’t the soft and sensitive type. I spent more time around nannies than I did around my parents until I was deemed old enough to start training.
All she wants to know is what effect this will have on my life—and by extension, hers. Finding out the sex of a child, especially a firstborn, is a big deal.
“Boy.”
She swears and stubs out the cigarette. “What does the woman want?”
“Want?”
“She’s living here, Nikolaj. She must want something.”
“They’re here for safety. There was an incident with the Italians.”
“What kind of incident?”
“The kind I’m working on smoothing over with Bianchi.” Which would be easier to do if he was taking any of my calls, but I don’t mention that detail to my mother. “Dmitriy is also an issue.”
“How does he know the boy exists?”
“He pays for information, as you know.”
“So?”
“So,what?”
“So, prove to Dmitriy you have no weaknesses, Nikolaj.”
“No.” That’s all I say and all I have to.
She arches a brow, surprised again.
“If you’re staying here, you’ll need to treat them with respect. I won’t tolerate anything else.”
She surveys me closely. “Have you trained him?”
I don’t answer, which is a reply in itself.
My motherhmms, then lights another cigarette. A stream of smoke wafts out of the left corner of her mouth. “Igor would hate that.”
“His opinion ceased to matter when he was murdered,” I respond coldly.
My mother is no simpering, sensitive widow. She kept all of the perks and lost all of the pitfalls following my father’s death.
“I knew allowing you to attend an American school was a mistake.”
