It touches me that even though my family is wreaking havoc on his, he still wants to know if I’m alright.
“I am. Please stay safe. My father thinks you are going to come in here and rip everyone apart,” I tell him.
“I want to, but it’s not the way. My father wants to try and talk to yours.”
“My father might do that, but he wants you out of Cincinnati. He wanted to push you out without the collateral damage.”
“It won’t happen. My father won’t let it. Try and stay safe,” he says. I tell him bye and hang up. Why can’t people get along?
Twenty-Three
Ivan
“Can you pass me the sausage?” I ask my dad. He’s making rye bread. Surprising, right? My dad is a good cook, and he loves homemade bread. So much so that he learned how to make it himself. We won’t be able to have it with breakfast but I have backup store-bought rye bread. It will do for now. It’s what I’ve been using for breakfast since I’ve been here.
“Here,” he hands me the package and I start to saute it in the pan as Tim strolls in. He’s on his phone so he doesn’t see my father yet. I take the pan off the heat so I can watch him. I want to see his reaction.
“Sorry, I’m late. I wanted to sleep…oh fuck,” he stops in his track.
“Good morning, nephew,” my father greets him.
“Ummm are you baking?” Tim asks him.
“I am. You should learn. It makes the ladies go crazy when a man can cook,” my father winks at me with a snort. Tim is all ears now.
“Teach me,” he practically begs.
“After all this shit we have going on I’ll show you everything I know.”
“Did you know your father could cook?” Tim asks me.
“I did, I mean the man raised me,” I chuckle.
“You’ve been holding out,” Tim pouts.
“You’ll be alright,” I laugh as I start to cook the sausage and my dad lets his dough rise. He pours coffee for all of us and takes a seat next to Tim.
“Where is your father?”
“No idea,” Tim shrugs, “you told him about last night?”
“He did. Anything else I need to know?”
“I don’t know, but my father is breaking us, using the women for his pleasure, keeping customers from them. It hurts us financially, not a lot but enough,” Tim shows him some of the spreadsheets on his phone.
“I didn’t want to do a brothel. We have them in other places. I wanted to just do the underground betting. There’s money to make there. Ivan’s fights alone are clearing over a million from that spreadsheet. Numbers will go up, extend invites. Make the lounge a nightclub, they do well in Russia. Hire a good DJ, fully stock the bar, upstairs and downstairs,” my father says.
“Yes, sir. I’ll have our messengers deliver them as soon as you say,” he nods.
“Do it now, in pairs, not armed. Even the Italians,” he says and we both step back for a minute. I almost burn the sausage because I’m staring at him.
“What?”
“Like I told you, sometimes we have to do what is best for others. You do that so often, like last night for Tim. I understand that Rodion was shot, but he lives. I know they tried to get the jump on you outside, but sometimes we have to set our anger aside and try to find a medium. And sometimes that doesn’t work, but we have to try. If they don’t want to find that place, then we take our pound of flesh for Rodion and we stand our ground. America is a free country, they don’t own it, or Cincinnati. I believe that talking things through first can stop a lot of heartaches. But if I have to use violence I will,” he states, a sneer on the last of his speech.
“What time would you like VIPs to show up?” Tim asks him.
“Do what you do, Tim. I’m just here to observe. Good news I’ll be taking your father back with me, you’ll have the apartment for yourself. Find land to build small houses on for the soldiers. Once they vacate the other floors we can have the apartments cleaned and then rented out.”
