Page 29 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

“Yes. Bring them to me. Quickly.”

Miron nods and excuses himself. A moment later, I hear barked orders in harsh Russian, then thundering footsteps down the hall as more of my men follow after him. I can barely sit still, but I force myself into the chair behind my desk, folding my arms over my chest.

I close my eyes and breathe.

This isn’t the end of things. I know that much. The vigilante may have gotten away again, but this is a blessing in disguise. He thinks it’s safe to come out again. He thinks that I’ve forgotten about him. That he has permission to run through the streets causing problems for people.

The one thing I’ve learned in my time as the boss of the Morozov Bratva is that the arrogance of underestimating an opponent is the quickest way to lose your life.

I’ll let him think he’s won this time. The more confident this man grows, the sloppier his work will become, and the less he’ll be expecting a counterattack. When his ego is properly inflated and his actions grow less and less calculated, that’s when I’ll lay the trap for him.

That’s when he’ll finally understand just how severely he’s fucked himself by coming after me and mine.

This rationalization is what keeps me from destroying any of my other possessions. I continue to breathe slowly and deeply, tightening the reins on the beast just below my surface.

Long minutes pass. When I’m calm again, I open my eyes and sit up straighter.

There’s a timid knock at the door, and I recognize it immediately. Nikolas. I cross the room and open the door to see him clutching his teddy bear to his chest, hair still wet from his bath. His grandfather would have never let us keep something so silly close to us, but it seems so petty to take away one of the only things left that gives him comfort nowadays.

I can never decide how to treat him. It’s a harsh world. Do we teach our children to embrace that? Or do we let them hold onto comfort, wherever it may be found? I used to think these kinds of questions were merely abstract. But now, the world has thrust them upon me in the form of a frightened, traumatized five-year-old boy, and forced me to choose what to do.

“I can’t sleep,” Nikolas says. “I’m scared.”

I sigh. The fight has gone out of me—temporarily, at least. “Come with me,” I say quietly. I reach down and take his little hand in mine.

We walk together towards the massive leather chair that resides behind my desk. I spin it so it faces out the window of my study, then sit down and lift Niko into my lap. He curls into my arm and we look through the glass together. It’s dark out, and the stars are beginning to show over the hedges at the far end of the garden.

“What are you afraid of, Niko?” I murmur.

He shrugs. “Monsters.”

I stifle a chuckle. Those things feel so real at Niko’s age. I remember being scared in the dark, many years ago. No one came to comfort me then. I wonder what things would be different if someone had.

“What do you think we can do if monsters come?” I reply carefully.

He looks up at me, curious. “I don’t know?”

I fix him with a serious gaze. “We can fight them,” I say. “Because we are strong, and if we are brave, then we can conquer anything.”

“Brave,” he echoes. “Strong.”

I nod. “Exactly.” I give his little biceps a squeeze and offer him a smile. “Strong like your daddy. Strong like your uncle. Tell me, Niko, what is your last name?”

“Morozov,” he mumbles. I can see sleep starting to overtake him. His chest rises and falls against my own.

“Yes, Morozov. And like all Morozov men, you are strong, you are brave, and you can conquer anything. Even monsters.”

I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope and making up the rules of gravity as I go. Is this what parenting is like? It’s fucking exhausting.

But, for now, it seems to have worked. Nikolas nods solemnly and tucks his head against my shoulder. I can feel his breath growing slower and slower.

Just when I think he’s about to fall asleep, I hear him ask, “When are Mommy and Daddy coming back?”

This again.I squeeze the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath.

“I don’t know, Niko,” I say simply.

He must be able to pick up on my frustration, because he doesn’t ask again. He burrows deeper into my embrace.

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