Page 25 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

I wave my hand around at “those people,” but we both know exactly who I mean.

The Morozov Bratva.

I still don’t understand how things could get this bad. Fifteen thousand dollars in debt. And we can’t even go to the police about it and ask for protection, because Dad is partially to blame for a hooker’s death.

It’s been hard to sleep after finding all of this out. All my life, I knew Dad had demons, but this is something else entirely. Part of me wants to go to the police and risk it all. I go through the reasons why in my head for the billionth time since he first told me the whole sordid story: He didn’t kill the woman. He only paid her for sex. She wasn’t his responsibility. She overdosed on whatever it is that she took. That’s not his fault. Dad had no duty to her outside of what he paid for.

But I can’t say that without feeling sick to my stomach. It’s so cold, so emotionless. It’s the kind of thing a man like Morozov would probably say.

To him, people like the woman Dad solicited are just a way to blackmail others. He holds their accidental overdoses over men like my father and that’s how he collects on his debts. It makes my gut churn.

“Look, hon, I appreciate you taking care of me, but I’m getting sick of you trying to be my parent. That’s not how this works. I’m the adult.”

“I’m an adult, too,” I say to him. He may not see me as an adult, but I am. Twenty-two isn’t old, but I feel like I’ve been fending for myself for way longer than that. I pay bills. I pay taxes. I study for class, I don’t go out and party, I take care of my train wreck of a father. I’m not the little girl he used to hoodwink all the time.

If I wanted to, I could very easily let Dad’s food burn on the stove and walk away from all of this. It’s not my responsibility. He’s a grown man that got himself into this mess. Let him get himself out of it.

“So you say,” he mutters, settling back in his chair once again. “We’d be out of this problem faster if you had a better job.”

“We wouldn’t be in this problem if you learned how to manage your money better,” I snap.

“All I’m saying is, if you were smart, you’d make money off your looks and not put all your hopes on making it as a big-time lawyer.”

I look at him skeptically, almost amused that he thinks that’s even a possibility. “I’m fifty percent you, Dad. No one is going to pay for looks like these.”

He lets out a genuine laugh. “Well, fair enough, sweetheart. I fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.” He looks up at me with a softness in his eye and adds in a gentle voice, “Not you, though, darling. You’re a perfect angel.”

I bite my lip and go back to the kitchen. This is how he does it—just when I’m about fed up with him, ready to leave, he reels me back in with some softness, some sweetness. He’s been doing it my whole life, and I should know better by now—I do know better by now—but it still gets me every time.

He’s my dad. I love him. I just wish I didn’t feel like such an idiot for sticking by his side all the time.

I leave him to his horse races and return to the stove, checking on the pasta and making sure the sauce hasn’t burned. Thankfully, everything is brewing as it should.

I stop to check my phone, looking through the rest of my schedule for the night. I don’t have anything locked in, and the slight moment of panic settles just as quickly as it arose. There’s not much scarier than thinking I’ve forgotten to do something.

As I stand beside the stove, stirring the sauce, I hear a noise somewhere outside. I pause and listen closely.

Silence.

I consider calling out to Dad, but everything sounds fine now, and he always gets mad when I talk over whatever’s on the squawk box. I chalk it up to me being entirely too paranoid given what happened a few weeks ago and continue cooking.

The phone rings. I put down the wooden spatula, hurrying over to the other side of the kitchen to grab the landline. Not many people call this number, so I answer a bit apprehensively.

“Hello?”

The person on the other end of the line doesn’t speak, but I can hear them breathing.

I repeat myself. “Hello?”

The call goes dead.

Before I can put it back on the receiver, the back door to the house bursts open. I scream and stumble backwards as a man enters the kitchen. It takes me a moment, but up close, I recognize him as the man from the grocery store, the one in overalls and boots who’d handed me the tomato I “dropped” in line at checkout. Dumpster Fire Hulk.

“Get out of here!” I scream, starting to reach for a knife. I don’t get too far before the man pulls out a gun. He points the pistol at me, and I feel my blood run cold.

This can’t be happening. Was he the noise I heard outside? The person calling to make sure we were home?

It hits me that he followed me back to the house. I knew I was right to trust my instincts about him. Something about him was off. He just oozed danger; it dripped from his pores like sweat.

---