Page 12 of The Bratva’s Monster

“So,” I say. “You’re here on business? Really?”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in so long, and a father should visit his daughter every once in a while.”

“Okay…” It hits me that he’s hiding something. The overexplaining was always a dead giveaway. “There’s no other reason?”

“Does a father need a reason?”

I shake my head and drink my coffee. Whatever the real reason is, he’ll make it known. He can’t help himself. My father is the worst at keeping secrets.

“You should eat something,” he says again. The waitress appears again and pours his coffee. He turns to her. “Could you bring an extra plate of toast and eggs?”

“Papa.” He puts up his hand to silence me.

“I’m paying for it. You’re wasting away before my eyes.”

I sigh. I might as well just let him.

The waitress goes away and he clears his throat. “So, how are you and your husband doing?”

He clasps his fingers together on the table, and now I know why he’s really here. Dammit.

“How did you find out?” I ask him.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” My voice thickens as I speak and my eyes start to burn. I swallow and add, “You heard about what happened and that’s why you came here. To make sure I’m all right.”

He sighs, the smile on his face fading. “I didn’t know for sure,” he says. “I was told about the shooting about a week after it happened, apparently. One of my clients said that it was all over the news out here. ‘Gangland shooting Upper West Side’. And I hadn’t heard from you in so long.” He scowls a little as he pauses. “I didn’t want to think something happened to you, so I thought that you would call me and tell me what happened.”

Of course, that’s it. He’s worried about me. He’s always worried about me. The sob that was in my throat is now sitting in my chest and my vision is starting to blur with tears.

“Papa,” I say. “He was killed. Someone shot him and… and he died.”

I sound like a child. And the tears are flowing now. He hands me a napkin.

“I am sorry for your husband,” he says. “How are you doing? Do you need anything? Money?”

“No. No. I’m okay in regard to money. He left me some.” I take a drink of coffee to chase away the big sob sitting in my chest. If I really get going, it’ll be over. I won’t be able to stop.

He nods and waits for me to get myself together. Then he asks in Russian, his voice lowered. “Are you safe?”

I look at him and suddenly realize that I’m just as bad at hiding my feelings when they’re spilling out right onto the table. I don’t say anything, and he reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“He was,” I start in Russian, “or rather, they say that he was a traitor. And… and if he’s a traitor, they will eventually start thinking that I’m one as well.”

He frowns. “How could they think that? What he does has nothing to do with you… Does it?”

“Papa,” I say as my face flushes.

“I’m sorry. I have to ask. You didn’t get mixed up in his business, did you? You promised me that you wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t,” I tell him. “He didn’t want me to, anyway. It’s a thing with them. The brotherhood is the brotherhood and the women stay home and…” Have babies. I have to stop myself. I can’t say it. Not even to my father. “And stay out of brotherhood business. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if I was helping him or not. If they think I am, then I’ll be in trouble.”

His bottom lip stiffens as he nods slowly. The waitress returns with our food, and I do my best not to look as distraught as I feel. The waitress slides the plate of toast and eggs in front of me. The sight of it makes me want to vomit.

He picks up his fork and digs into his breakfast, slicing into the pancake with the side of the fork and freeing a piece before taking a bite. I watch him chew his food for a few seconds before he says in English, “You’re coming home, then.”

I’m a little taken aback. Even though that was in English, I feel like something’s lost in translation. “What?”