Page 121 of Stolen By The Bratva King

The little guy has done me proud today, standing solemnly at my side and shaking hands with my friends and associates like the man he is.

Ah, no. As my wife regularly reminds me—Desi is a little boy. None of this ‘be a man’ stuff; although my Papa meant well, he instilled a sense of duty in me too young, and it was a tremendous burden.

My boy will never know the feeling of being forced to grow up too soon, and to that end, I changed a lot about how I live.

Alec is here today, chauffeured down from his comfortable house in his hometown, Poughkeepsie. He always wanted to go back, so when he mentioned it, I suggested a simple deal: I would buy him a house up there, complete with a golf course, and he’d let us live in Emery’s childhood home.

My father-in-law was delighted with this proposition, and although we don’t see him as often now, he’s always pleased to see us when we drop by. I’m genuinely terrible at golf, and despite many patient lessons, I’m not getting much better, but he likes it that way.

“Leon!” Alec is walking up the path arm-in-arm with Emery. “It was a beautiful service. Josef would have loved it. Everyone else is getting ready to go to my house—sorry, your house—for the wake.” He raises an eyebrow. “You coming along?”

“Not yet.” I reach for Emery. “I need a minute with my family.” I gesture at the graves. “Allof them.”

Alec gives me a nod and retreats. I sit on the freshly mowed grass, my son on my lap, and Emery joins us.

Before us, my parent’s headstones gleam, looking almost as fresh as the brand new one that graces Josef’s final resting place. On all three, the same inscription:

Lyubov’ spasayet

“What does it mean?” Emery asks.

I kiss the back of her hand. “‘Love saves.’ It was my parent’s motto.”

She sighs. “Josef said that to me when we went to visit him that first time. He told me love would save you and me.”

“He was right.” I ruffle Desi’s hair. “You ready,moy mal’chik?”

He pats my hand. “Yes.”

The three of us put a hand on the grass before us, just inside the shadow cast by my parent’s headstones.

“Papa, Mama,” I begin. “This is my family.” I kiss Emery’s cheek. “My wife, Emery Alecovna Vasilieva, and my son,” I bounce him gently, “Desimir Leonovich Vasiliev.”

“Those arebignames,” Desi says. “Do I have to remember mine?”

I chuckle and grin at him. “Nah. But that’s your proper title. Russian names are fancy.”

“I wish I’d met them.” Desi flicks idly at my cufflink. “Would they have liked me?”

“Very much, kiddo. And they’d have loved your Mami, too.”

Desi carefully frees the carnation that’s pinned to his lapel and lays it carefully on my mother’s grave. We sit in silence, and I wonder whether my parents see me from their celestial seats and find me lacking.

For the first time in my life, I believe they’d be proud.

I may have taken a convoluted route to get here, but the city and its criminal underworld remain calm and orderly, with innocent people primarily out of the picture.

More importantly, though, I have what I thought I’d never have again; a family who loves me.

“Hey,” I say to Desi. “Let’s go visit your first Mami’s tree.”

We planted the sapling here in the memorial garden last year. It was Emery’s idea; loving Desi as she does, she wanted to respect the memory of his birth mom.

She sees too many frightened mothers and children every day in her work at Bright Futures, and she knows all too well how terrified Desi’s Mami must have been to die, certain he would suffer the same fate.

The kid doesn’t remember much. As the trauma of his early life receded, his mind buried the memories under new experiences and a growing sense of safety.

I doubt his poor mother would begrudge him that, but we still speak of her. It seems like the right thing to do.

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