Page 14 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Matvei Morozov? I haven’t heard that name in years.

I knew Dad got mixed up with some bad things when I was a little girl, and that name always seemed to float around whenever those bad things got brought up.

Back then, I didn’t think anything of it. In fact, nine-year-old me thought it was normal. I thought all dads stayed out late and came home at sunrise with rolls of crisp hundreds bound in rubber bands. So when the cops came by one day, I didn’t know that I shouldn’t tell them those things. I didn’t know that what my dad was doing was wrong. So I told them everything I knew about Dad’s comings and goings and things I’d overheard—bets and loans and vigs—even when I didn’t understand it. I smiled as I spilled the beans.

Dad tried covering for himself. He said I watched The Sopranos with him too much and that he should only show me age-appropriate shows from now on. Somehow, he got out of that jam, though I can’t possibly imagine how. Maybe the cops took pity on an alcoholic gambler with a sick wife and a precocious little daughter.

Anyways, that was all back then. But ever since Mom died, he’s sworn to me that he was changing his ways. He promised he was getting out of the mess and cleaning up his act for me. I was the last family he had. He wanted to be there for me more.

That’s what he said.

Until today, I almost believed it.

“I don’t know anything about anyone named Morozov, officers,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. I try to keep my expression neutral despite how clear it is that I’m not being honest.

Officer Mendoza sighs. “C’mon, Victoria. This isn’t the first time your old man’s been involved in some shady shit. Down at the station, we have a running bet to see when he’ll show up again. He’s not exactly a model citizen.”

I narrow my eyes at him, immediately offended. “Great way to talk about the victim of an assault, officer.”

“You know what he means,” Sharpe interjects, jumping to his partner’s defense.

“What I know is that you’re both telling me that you make a joke out of my dad’s drinking problems. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you think an innocent fifty-year-old man like my father is doing business with someone I’ve never heard of named Matvei Morozov?”

Mendoza seems to shrink back a little bit—at least he has some sense of shame.

Sharpe, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be buying what I’m selling. “Ms. Elwood, excuse my French, but cut the shit, okay? If you don’t want to see your old man back here sooner rather than later, you need to help us out here. Morozov is a dangerous man. Your dad staying in his circle can only end badly.”

Sharpe talks like he has experience with the men that Morozov associates with. I don’t want to know those stories.

That’s what scares me the most. I’m sure I can deal with Dad getting pissed at me for telling the cops too much again. But if these two are asking because they want to see how much I know, I could be putting everyone in danger.

“I just need to see my dad. I don’t know anything, okay? I don’t know anything about anyone named Morozov, or who he does business with, or anything like that. I’m just here because my dad collapsed in my arms and I thought he was going to die. So, if you two are done badgering me, I have to go check on him and see if he’s okay.”

I don’t let either of them get in another word as I shoulder past them, heading down the hall for Dad’s room. As I approach, the nurse standing outside gives me a small nod, letting me past her.

I close the door and take a seat next to the hospital bed.

My heart is beating a million times per minute. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to regain control of myself and my emotions. I can’t afford to be hysterical right now. Dad needs me too much.

I sigh and open my eyes.

Dad looks like roadkill. Bloodied, scabbed, bruised to all hell. “Jesus, Daddy,” I sigh. “They really did a number on you.”

“No kidding,” he mumbles through fat lips. Dad lets out a groan as he turns his head to look at me. “I saw those cops leave. Did they bother you?” Each word comes out slow and halting.

“They just asked some questions about you,” I tell him.

“What’d you tell ‘em?” That serious tone in his voice tells me he fully expects me to have snitched on him like I did when I was a little girl.

“Nothing,” I say. “I told them to stop asking me questions. I just came to make sure you’re okay.”

His narrowed eyes soften, and he smiles. “Good girl. I know I could count on you.”

I want to soak in his compliment and pretend everything is normal, but I have to ask the question. “Dad, is it Matvei Morozov that you owe the money to?”

For the past few months, I’ve been helping Dad pay some mysterious figure back five hundred dollars per month. The total he owes is fifteen grand. I don’t even know how he would rack up a bill that large; I only know that he begged and begged for me to help him, and I couldn’t just leave him to the consequences. But I didn’t want to know the details. Not a single one.

He hesitates.

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