Page 17 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

“I understand the concerns, completely,” I say as sincerely as possible, though inside I am roaring. “But, as I’ve told Mr. Simons and Mrs. Calloway already this week, I am fully prepared to take custody of Nikolas. I have prepared a room for him, acquired clothing, toys, educational materials—anything he needs. Money is no object when it comes to my nephew’s well-being, I can promise you that.”

“We know that, Mr. Morozov. You’ve made that very clear. It’s just…”

“Anything else I can do—you have to tell me.” It’s taking every fiber of my being to stay calm, cool, and polite, when what I want to do is go kamikaze on every suited imbecile in here. I haven’t had to act like this since the day I became don. I feel like a sniveling coward.

Yet, against all odds, it seems to be working. I haven’t been ‘nice’ in my thirty-five years on this godforsaken planet, but for some reason, this lady is buying what I’m selling.

“Well…”

“Please…” I look at her nametag. “Gloria, I am throwing myself on your mercy here. Anything at all, just name it.” Christ, I hate how I sound. I have to remind myself—You’re doing this for Niko.

She sighs and looks out the door. The drone of bored office workers, replete with faxing beeps and the shuff-shuff-shuff of a printer, filters in grayly.

Seeing nothing, she leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, “I shouldn’t be telling you nothing—I could get in a lot of trouble—it’s just the perception, you know? A rich single man with a reputation… My manager is very strict, and so is the main Family Court judge for these types of cases, Judge Herrington. They don’t like you none at all. It just don’t look good. Do you get me?”

I sit back, anger blossoming in my chest. Reputation. I have spent my whole life and career building my reputation. The things I have done, the things I have overcome, were not accomplished just for these underpaid white-collar fucks to insult me and keep me from what is rightfully mine.

I nod solemnly and stare her dead in the eyes. “Oh, I understand, Gloria. I understand perfectly.”

I’m sick of being nice. Of saying please.

No more.

When nighttime comes, I will go back to doing what I do best.

* * *

Midnight is silent in the suburbs. The house before me is large and imposing. Ivory pillars studded along the front porch, a wrought-iron fence encircling the property. The windows are dark, but that doesn’t matter. I already know what I need and where he is.

“Keys,” I order. Timofei drops them into my outstretched hand.

It’s been a simple matter to get to this point. The judge’s name—Herrington—led us to campaign donation records, which contained a listed home address. A brief stakeout of the property ensued, Timofei followed the housekeeper home, and a minor exchange of cash from us to her convinced the woman into letting us borrow her key and make an illicit copy. Not a hair on her head was harmed. Call it my good deed for the year.

Now, I’m standing outside the house of this bastard Judge Herrington, ready to make my parental case as convincingly as I know how to do. The hours of groveling like a pig at the feet of Child Welfare workers are behind me, thank the fucking lord. Ahead of me is what I’ve needed, what I’ve craved—action, and the pure, clean process of might making right.

“Second story, third window from the right,” Timofei reminds me. “Fourteen steps from the landing to the bedroom door. He sleeps separately from his wife. Snores too loud.”

I scoff. This will be even easier than I expected.

“Are you sure you don’t want to send men to handle this?” he asks me for the umpteenth time.

“No,” I snap. “This one I am doing myself.”

We stride up to the front door and begin the night’s work.

The key fits into the lock perfectly, and the house opens up before me. Inside is as quiet and still as the estate outdoors. A clock ticks in one corner. Aside from that, nothing…until I hear it: the raucous, tea-kettle-whistling noise of a snoring fat man.

We make our way up the stairs, feet moving silently, checking each step for creaks before we proceed.

Soon, we’re at the top.

Fourteen steps forward, one by one, until I find the door. It swings open smoothly. I step inside, Timofei at my side, and push the door shut behind us.

Timofei looks to me. I nod. He crosses the distance to the sleeping judge, and wakes him with a hand clamped over his mouth. The man sits bolt upright in a panic. When he sees me, his eyes bulge.

“Mmmff!” he cries out against the throttling pressure of Timofei’s palm keeping him quiet.

I raise a finger to my lips. “Shh,” I whisper. “You do not want to wake Lucille next door. She would not be pleased to be tired for her appointment at the nail salon at nine-thirty. And little Charlie downstairs has a big day at school tomorrow. They both need their rest.”

---