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“No.” He pounded a fist on his desk and pointed at me. “Theyneedme. Every man is expendable. I can replace them with others.”
“Some fucking philosophy,” I’d growled, gnashing my teeth. “You’re every child’s dream father.”
He fixed me with those blue eyes that looked too much like mine and smiled in a way that made my skin crawl. “That ‘philosophy’ made you a man. It made Mila strong, too. What you see as kindness will only hold you back. To bepakhan, you must be ruthless. You must take what you want, no matter what it is.”
I always wake up with those words ringing in my head and my hand tightening around an invisible gun.
You must take what you want.
It got worse after I found out what he’d really been up to. What he did to Mila. They were a reminder of my failure, of my weakness. The son of a bitch was wrong.
Kindness is not weakness.
Ignorance is.
I pull up outside the little white bungalow housing my son. White picket fence, patchy yard, sunflowers on the windowsill—it looks too quaint and quiet to be real. I know better than anyone that this is not real life.
Real lifebleeds.
Out front, Archie and Adam are tossing a ball around. A rush of resentment blinds me for a moment.
How is it possible that the man who betrayed me and my Bratva is the one to experience all the moments that I missed out on with my son?
I park and step out of my car. The moment I shut the door, Adam looks up and sees me. “Uncle Illy!”
The name is both a gut punch and a tug on my heart. I want so badly for him to call me something, anything, that tells me he knows who I really am to him. I want to rip the veil from his eyes, to pick him up and shake him and bellow, “I am your father!” again and again until the whole fucking world hears it.
The boy hugs me around the waist. I pat him on the back a few times before he relinquishes me and goes chasing after the ball again.
Over his shoulder, Archie offers up a smile, but it’s for Adam’s benefit, not mine. His eyes flick toward my car and then down the street. “Taylor’s not here.”
“I know. She insisted on walking.”
The ball rolls to my feet. I stoop down and pick it up, then toss it to the old man. He catches it with a start, looking up at me wide-eyed like I just threw a bomb in his lap.
“Grandpa! Pass it here!” Adam takes up a stance. Archie swallows, then reluctantly underhands the ball over to the boy.
We end up in a skewed triangle, circulating the ball between us. I wonder if the kid is picking up on anything. If he senses the tensions rippling between us. I wonder if Archie feels as weird about this as I do—a Russian mob boss playing catch with a traitor.
The game lasts maybe two more minutes before Adam grows bored. “Can I go get my truck? I wanna play in the sandbox.”
“Sure,” Archie says. “I’ll drag the sandbox out.”
Adam ducks inside and Archie ambles over to the corner of the yard where a large rectangular trough sits. He bends over and tries to drag it out from the sideyard, but it barely budges. I watch for a moment as he strains. He looks frail. With a sigh, I bite back my resentment and stride forward to help him.
My father’s voice echoes in the back of my head.Soft. Weak. Fucking pathetic.
If he knew that I was breaking bread with a traitor, he’d be rolling in his grave. The man never even asked questions when someone was accused of betrayal. He always punished first and asked questions later, or never.
It strikes me, very suddenly, that showing Archie mercy would be a giant middle finger to the bastard.
Tempting.
Very. Fucking. Tempting.
“Let me.” I grab the edges of the trough and haul it out into the center of the grass for him.
“Thanks,” Archie mumbles. When I glance over at him, his face is red with embarrassment, his eyes hooded with something that looks a lot like shame.
