Page 90 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
The careful neutrality in his voice doesn’t mask the underlying tension. We’re still finding our way, Igor and I—former enemies learning to coexist for the sake of the boy who connects us.
And then it’s just Damien and me, uncle and nephew, separated by eight years and a lifetime of violence that he doesn’t yet understand.
Damien immediately grabs a basketball, dribbling it with surprising coordination for his age. “Watch this!” he says, taking a shot at his lower hoop. The ball bounces off the rim.
“Good form,” I tell him honestly. “Your follow through needs work, but the stance is solid. Who taught you?”
“Father. And some videos on the internet.” He retrieves the ball, tries again. This time it goes in, and his grin could power the city.
I take the ball when he passes it to me, feeling the familiar weight and texture. It’s been years since I’ve played—another lifetime, when I was young enough to believe sports mattered more than survival.
“Want to see something?” I ask, moving to the regulation hoop.
I take a shot from the free-throw line. Nothing but net. Muscle memory from high school, from the brief period when I thought I might have a normal life ahead of me.
“Whoa,” Damien breathes. “Can you teach me to do that?”
“It takes practice,” I tell him. “Lots of practice. And patience with yourself when you miss.”
“How much practice?”
“Years. But the good news is, every shot you take makes you better, even the ones you miss.” I pass him the ball. “Try again.”
He lines up carefully, tongue poking out in concentration. The shot goes wide.
“What happened there?” I ask.
“I missed,” he says with eight-year-old logic.
“But why? What felt different?”
He considers the question seriously. “I think I was trying too hard?”
“Good insight. Sometimes when we want something too much, we get in our own way.” I demonstrate the shooting motion slowly. “Relax your shoulders. Let your wrist do the work.”
“Uncle Yakov?” he says during a water break, looking up at me with Ana’s eyes. “Why didn’t you visit me before? When I was little?”
The question is delivered with childish directness, no accusation or hurt, just curiosity. But it cuts deeper than any blade.
“I was…sick,” I tell him, which is both truth and evasion. “I needed to get better before I could be the uncle you deserved.”
“Are you better now?”
Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer.
“I’m trying to be.”
He nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Father says trying is the most important part. Even when it’s hard.”
More wisdom from Igor. When did he learn to be a father? When did he become someone who understood that effort matters more than outcome?
“Your father is a smart man,” I say, meaning it.
“He is,” Damien agrees solemnly.
I dribble the ball between my legs in a controlled rhythm. “Basketball is about timing and trust. You have to believe the ball will be there when you reach for it.”
He tries, fails, tries again. The ball bounces away, and he chases it with determination that reminds me painfully of his mother.
