He Chose His Pregnant Mistress. I Was the Bratva Princess. novel · Chapter 19 of 24

Chapter 19: What He Owes

Lev's POV

The chairman recessed the table until sundown, and sent every family to its own corner of the restaurant to think.

Fyodor Sorokin took the kitchen.

He stood at the long steel counter between the walk-in and the dish pit, with a cup of black tea he wasn't drinking, and I stood in the doorway.

I had practised what I would say for five years.

It came out short.

"I want her."

He didn't turn around.

"Who?"

"Your daughter."

"Ah." He set the cup on the steel. "Her."

"Fyodor Andreyevich."

"Karasev." He rubbed his beard. "I heard the headboard on Wednesday."

I kept my face still.

"I had the shotgun by the bed," he said. "I thought about it for some time. Then I thought, he took a bullet for her on Monday, and I put the gun away."

"I'm not ashamed of it."

"I did not ask if you were." He turned. "Sit."

"I'll stand."

"You always do."

He looked old in the strip light, and tired, and his eyes were red at the rims.

"Do you know what you were for five years?" he said. "Not a lover. A window. I looked through you at my own child, once a week, on a sheet of paper."

"Yes."

"And she was sad, and you wrote, Subject well."

I had written it three hundred times.

"I wrote it because the other thing was a longer sentence," I said. "I could not make myself send it."

"What was the other?"

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