“Let’s go see what animals are over there,” I bargained.
Ivan nodded, and we moved away.
There was no way in hell Ivan hadn’t pointed guns at people. Men like him lived or died by their weapons. And yet he supported the education we’d instilled in Brady. I was…confused. It didn’t make sense. He’d said he wanted Brady to be his heir. To take over his organization.
My eyes absently trailed over the next plaque, seeing but not reading the words.
“You seemed surprised,” Ivan said quietly, as if he were reading my mind.
I flicked a glance at him. “I am.”
“I’m not some monster, Poppy,” Ivan murmured. “No matter what you think of me.”
His mouth said one thing, but reality begged me to consider the alternative.
“Brady’s lived a life I could only dream of. He’s had a good upbringing. I’m not here to ruin that.” Ivan looked at where the boy had his face pressed between the bars, staring down at whatever animal prowled about its enclosure.
That might be his intentions. He might not want to corrupt his son. But at the end of the day, Ivan was a mob boss. With that came choices that most people mercifully didn’t have to make. He couldn’t be a good dad, the kind of dad I wanted for Brady. No matter what he said.
I took a long breath. The sooner we left, the better. I couldn’t afford the little heart to become any more attached than it already was to the monstrous sire.
Chapter 19 – Ivan
Rayko:All these animals, and we can’t shoot any.
Boris:Protected species.
Rayko:Back home? Food.
Kiril:First world countries are weird.
Me:Shut up, and do your jobs.
Kiril:We’re the biggest threat here, boss.
Boris:Shut up, kid. And quit staring at the birds like that.
Kiril:What? They look tasty!
Boris:I could eat some peacock.
Kiril:You like cock? I knew it!
Me:Enough.
The hot August sun beat down on the packed crowd, creating a melting pot of smells. Flies buzzed around the stewing trashbins, adding a strong flavor to the scene. I took the treats from the concession window and moved through the mass of sweat and BO. Poppy and my son stood off to the side. I shared a look with the beautiful, smiling face, and we seemed to communicate silently that the picnic tables were not where we wanted to sit.
“Here you go.” I handed the boy his yogurt fruit bar.
Poppy helped him tear the wrapper off. Already, beads of juice were dripping down the sides.
“Thank you, tatko,” he beamed and began to devour the treat.
Poppy took hers, and we began to walk down one of the trails, exploring pens and exhibits we hadn’t seen yet. This trip was…nice. I knew squat about animals. But my ignorance, my lack of higher education—hell, ofanyformal education—was hidden through diversion or silence. This wasn’t like the forks on the table. I didn’t need to scramble like an idiot trying to fit in. I could simply stand there, enjoy my son, and partake in the enthusiasm. The few times I was forced to read the plaques, I avoided stumbling by sounding out the Latin names or other hard words that normal folk wouldn’t be able to pronounce, either.
I ran the flat of my tongue along the base of my cone, catching the vanilla soft serve before it could slough off. Already, I was making attempts in private to better myself. By the time my son was old enough to notice I was a dunce, I wouldn’t be. Keeping his mother from noticing was another matter. But thus far, I’d accomplished the feat.
“Here.” I tipped my chin. There was a bench under the shade of a mighty maple. It seemed as good as any. “Sit.”
