Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Ana chewed on her bottom lip. “Okay. If it’s not about Ma, is it Demyan?”
Anton nodded. He never liked to lie to his children. It was not something he wanted them to think was acceptable and teaching them that lesson started by him always being honest. Even if lies or omission would be better.
“Is he okay?” Ana asked in a whisper.
“He will be.”
Eventually.
Ana stepped back into her bedroom and closed the door.
Why did Anton feel like that was going to be the story of her life?
*
The walls talked. Usually they listened and heard things. Absorbed years of memories in their spaces and corners. A family living, a husband and wife loving, their children growing. Normal, happy, healthy things.
Tonight, they were talking.
It was killing Anton.
Every step he made down the hallway toward his office, the walls spoke louder. Their pictures jumped out at him over and over. Of his daughter, his son, his wife, and all of them together. Mostly, though, he was focusing in on the ones which held the face of his boy.
Anton had a propensity to take candid photos. He’d gotten pretty good at capturing his family in their regular moments over the years. From the time Demyan still loved his swaddling blanket, to his first hesitant steps, to him sleeping in a toy box filled to the rim in matchbox cars when he was six—his boy had always loved those monstrous fucking things. God knew they hurt the feet when someone stepped on them.
Then there were the older photos, the ones where Anton knew his son had started to take on more of his own personality, dipped his explorative tendencies into all different kinds of waters—sports, girls, partying, and the like.
He’d also taken on more of his father’s charisma and natural leading abilities, Anton knew. Then there was Demyan’s desire to be Bratva, as he’d always been told he was Bratva born and the little prince. Not so much by his father, as Anton couldn’t discourage his son from joining by their rules but he never actively encouraged him, either. It was every other man he grew up around supplying the kid with ammo for his curiosity and letting him tag along on safe ventures and deals.
There was no denying it for Anton anymore. His son would be Bratva, eventually. He did what he could to prepare Demyan for that life—respect, honor, loyalty. He gave him the tools he needed to stand up on his own two feet and earn his way if that’s what he truly wanted.
But tonight ... taking a life ... it was too soon.
So as Anton stood there, staring at the snapshots of his son’s life surrounding him, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander.
Had he done everything right? Was there something over the years that should have been done differently? Would his boy come out okay after this; would he make it out on top one more time?
*
Anton had turned cold, almost detached, as he sat across from his seventeen-year-old son. It wasn’t that he liked turning off his emotions to handle the situation, but he couldn’t let the other men sitting quietly in the room see his weakness. He rocked backwards in his office chair while Demyan remained stoic and silent on the couch.
“Where did you get the gun?” Anton asked.
Demyan lifted a single shoulder dismissively. “It’s not hard to get one, you know. Not when your father is who he is.”
Anton’s gaze narrowed. “I’m aware of how easy it is. I’m a weapons trafficker and an illegal arms dealer. I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been breathing, Demyan. I didn’t ask your ease of getting one, I asked from whom you got it.”
“Someone—”
“Before you even think to start, do not lie to me.”
“A bull,” Demyan mumbled.
“Which one?”
“Wasn’t it a good thing I had one? I’d have been dead if I didn’t. Gia, too.”
Ivan flinched where he was leaning against a wall, but the man stayed silent.
Anton sighed, cocking a brow. “Sure, but if you felt like you had to carry a weapon, then you should have come to me. Instead, you went behind my back.”
“It’s just a fucking gun, Papa. You have an entire collection of your own.”
“Which bull?” Anton asked, ignoring his son’s biting anger.
Demyan muttered the name of a young man who was only a few years older than Anton’s son. Anton realized then that his son was hanging around more Bratva men than he realized. Again, something he couldn’t step in and discourage, but he made a mental note to keep a closer tab on his boy.
“Were you carrying inside the school, too?” Anton asked.
“No, I’d leave it in my car when I was in classes.”
Anton was grateful for that. He asked a few more simple questions, getting the story of what had happened and how it was taken care of afterward. Finally, Anton felt like the men who had shown up to his home in the middle of the night had been given enough of a show from the boss and his child, so he waved them off.