TIMOFEY
Sergey leans back on the sofa with a groan. When he meets my eyes again, he rolls his own. "Don't look at me like that. I made it here, didn't I?"
I gesture towards the setting sun. "Barely."
"I had more important things to do."
More important than this?What kind of father has more important shit than this?I want to ask. But that's whathewants. That's who he is to me right now—just "Sergey." Not my father.
I learned early on that the father who adopted me and the man who once ran the Viktorov Bratva are not one and the same. Sergey has sides to him, masks he puts on and takes off as it pleases him.
"We need to talk about how to handle the investigation," I say, shifting to the matter at hand.
"No, we don't," Sergey counters. "They don't have anything."
"We don't know that."
