Page 48 of Baby for the Bratva King

Black netted stockings cover her legs, her breasts spilling out of a tiny bra.

“You’ll be back before the end of the day,” says my father, sauntering out of the bedroom, topless. “You can’t go a day without cock.”

“That’s right. I just won’t be having yours.” She yanks open the front door, leaving in a huff.

I stare at the door, watching it shut. The bang still jolts me, even though I expected it.

I roll my eyes, shutting my textbook. Calculus can wait.

“What the fuck was that?” I rise from the couch, hands folded over my chest.

“Must be nearly her time of the month.”

“Or maybe you’re just a piece of shit. Ever thought of that?” I run my eyes across his body. “Shave your chest. You look like a baboon.”

“You have some cheek,” says my father while searching the kitchen for something to eat. “You should get back to your college work. Know what’s good for you.”

We flew to New York seven years ago today, and my tolerance for my father runs thinner each year.

After five years working for another pakhan, he decided to become one himself.

While I was focusing on finals, minding my business, he was building an empire. My father learned from the best, and now plays a big part in the underground scene.

There are other organized crime groups living in Brooklyn, but my father is civil with them all.

Him and his men focus on business, and I focus on passing my college exams.

Things have been steady for a while. I attend college, go out for drinks on the weekend. I live a relatively normal life and let my father do his thing—whatever the fuck that entails. Ignorance is bliss.

We live in Brooklyn in an old apartment, but it's a duplex and on a clear day, if you really look, you can see the Brooklyn Bridge.

Owning a Bratva doesn’t make you a billionaire by any means, but my father was satisfied…for a while. He plays by his own rules. He works how he wants, when he wants.

For a year and a half, he was on top form, but I think the hard work is starting to take a toll.

Running a business has its ups and downs, but there are more downs than ups.

And I wonder if my father will ever experience an up after stooping this low.

He brings back women every night.

I’ve been working on some important assignments lately, but I can never concentrate when the headboard is banging against the wall. And just when I think I can get some peace and quiet, the banging starts again. “Such a dirty whore,” is what he says to the women he brings home. No wonder this one has stormed out of the apartment.

“The Sukas want money,” he says, opening the fridge.

“We barely have any ourselves.” I eye up the cabinet in the corner, full of whiskey and vodka. “I wonder why.”

“A man needs to have his pleasures.”

“What happened to you wanting to make a living?”

“This is a living,” argues my father.

“Drinking and fucking away your sorrows is not living,” I tell him.

“And what do you propose, son?” My father slams the fridge shut. “Not everyone is eligible for a student visa. And even if I was eligible, I would never let those bastards take my money in exchange for a useless degree.”

“International tourism is in demand. I could build something⁠—”