Chapter 9 – Ivan
Mancini:This is unforgivable.
Me:I don’t need your forgiveness, don.
Mancini:If you attack the Poles, I’m not offering you aid.
Me:I don’t need your fucking aid, don.
I crept through the back door. The hinges creaked, a precaution so that my enemies couldn’t sneak up on me. I never conceived of a situation where I would be the one sneaking into my own house. It was ungodly early, though, and after the excitement of yesterday, I didn’t want to wake the newest members of my household.
My son—Hristo.
I breathed a deep gulp of air, satisfaction filling me as I passed his room. The single-level craftsman house buzzed withan excitement that mirrored my own energy. I hadn’t been here yesterday for very long after dropping my prizes off. I showed Poppy where things where, warned her that my men lived in the houses to the right, left, and across the street, and I told her that she could do whatever she wanted with the place.
Whatever she wanted looked a hell of a lot like cleaning.
I stood in the open, small kitchen, marveling at the spick-and-span floor. Huh. I had no idea the backsplash was peachy-pink. And the counters had little flecks of sparkles in them.
Upon opening the cupboards, my smile of astonishment turned to a frown. Everything was rearranged. Or missing completely. The red plastic cups that I reused weren’t on the second shelf. The coffee mugs were up one higher. The one with the particularly deep chip in the ceramic was missing from the motley stash.
I let out an angry huff. I was too tired after the business of yesterday and the long night at the clubs to care that my cup was gone. Everything was a mess. Without Mancini’s aid, the city council was actively working against me. The developer wouldn’t return my calls.
Turning the electric burner to red-hot, I filled the percolator with water and wrinkled my nose when I realized the grounds had not only been cleaned out, but the damn thing was polished. She’d used soap in my coffee maker.
Grumbling, I slammed the thing on the burner a little too loudly.
A doorknob popped, hinges whined, and then bare feet slapped across the floor. The boy—my boy, stopped at the end of the back hall, where the two spare bedrooms were.
“Mr. Ivan! You’re home,” he breathed, excitement lighting his face.
Just like that, the exhaustion sloughed off.
“Good morning, Hristo,” I said without thinking.
The boy wrinkled his nose. “My name’s Brady!” He slammed his thumb against his chest.
Mine pulsed with a small pain. The normal sounding American word was how he saw himself. He knew nothing of his heritage.
“Alright,Brady, if I’m going to call you that, you’re going to call me tatko,” I bargained.
The child tipped his head to the side. “What istatko?”
I smiled. “My name. A special one, just for you.”
“Mama calls you Mr. Ivan—and other funny names in Italian that I’m not allowed to use.” The boy padded over. He climbed on a chair, legs sticking out straight as he wiggled his butt back in the seat. “But my cousins use those wordsallthe time. They mouth off when Auntie Rosa isn’t around. Otherwise, auntie washes their mouths with soap!”
My coffee began to bubble and sing. I moved it off the burner to let it finish. Going back to the cupboard, I frowned again at the limited selection of too-small mugs.
“Mama couldn’t get the big, stained mug clean. She tried soaking it in white powder on the back porch,” the child said as if he could read my thoughts.
Sure enough, through the kitchen window that looked out on the fenced-in back yard, there was my mug. I missed it as I came in in the morning.
“I’ll get it!” the boy called, launching off the seat and running to the back door.
I winced as he tore it open. It was directly across from the room where he’d been sleeping. Where his mother wasstillsleeping.
When he came back inside, I was there to catch the door and shut it as softly as possible. I also closed the door to the small back bedroom, noting the thin blanket falling off the bare shoulder.
