I find my father sitting on a wooden chair on the porch at the back gazing at the shimmering lake.
He doesn’t look away from the scenic view when I step out, but a smile dips the corners of his mouth.
“Good morning, my son.”
“Morning.”
“Everything okay at home?”
“It is.”
“And your wife?” He looks at me now, but I don’t know what to say.
He’s been different since the wedding. I think he might take pity on Adriana. I sense it.
“She’s fine.”
“That’s all good, son.” He returns his focus to the lake and smiles again. “What do you see when you look out at the lake?” he asks.
I know what he wants me to say, but I haven’t had that artistic vision in a long time, and I don’t want it now because I don’t want it to make me look like I’ve gone soft.
“Water.” I smirk.
“Smartass. Of course, there’s fucking water in the lake.” He laughs, then the seriousness returns to his face. “You and I don’t see things like that, though, do we?”
“No, Father.”
“Then tell me what you really see. Humor an old dying man.”
Old dying man.
I don’t want him to be dying. It’s okay for him to get old, but I don’t want him to go to the other side ever. But that is to come. We don’t have long left.
When that time comes, I’ll never have days like this again. There will just be me until Sophia goes, too. She’s not that much younger than my father.
I decide to humor him and look out to the lake again. Of course, I never just saw water in the first place. So, I choose to tell him what I see.
“In the shimmer of the sunlight touching the surface, I see a fire-breathing dragon rising from the chasm of hell. It has great black wings and long, sharp teeth and eyes as red and blazing hot like the infernal fire raging from its mouth.”
He nods and smiles again. “That’s better. Now sit.”
I sit in the chair in front of him, and his eyes meet mine.
“You shouldn’t have allowed your brother to stop you from doing something you loved. Painting was as much a part of you as it was for me.”
The mention of my brother has me seething, and I wish I could tell my father what I fear about Ivan.
“It seemed like a necessary thing to do at the time,” I say.
“That’s nonsense, boy. Complete nonsense. I hope you’ll find your muse again someday because no matter what I decide for the company and leadership of the brotherhood, you’re going to need little things like that.”
“It’s just art, Father.”
“You want to know the secret to being a great Pakhan?” he asks, and I nod. “You need balance. Little things like art help you escape reality. We are the Baranov. There is always going to be a threat to us. That is the life we have chosen to live in the Bratva. Little things likearthelp keep you sharp.” He pauses for a beat. “You can’t always take, divide, and conquer. You have to know when to do certain things and when not to. That’s what makes you sensitive to different situations. That’s how you outsmart others when they come to take you down and how you come out on top.” He balls his hands into fists.
“What if the thing that balances you makes you weak?”
He shakes his head. “It can never make you weak. Something else is to blame for that.”
