I laugh, throw my head back and crack, really crack, like I hadn’t in years. Then I look him dead in the eye.
“Bullshit, Pakhan,” I say, point blank, no emotion. “All your weak-ass relatives clinging to your trusy like babies, riding your name like it’s a slut on easy street. Not a pair of balls between the lot of them. And you want to call them strong?”
I lean forward to match him, using the same tone, “They’re weaklings. Pathetic pieces of s**t we haven’t buried in the desert only because they’re blood. Bratva. That’s all.”
“He’s not wrong,” Katya chimes in, casually still smirking. “Those old sacks of s**t hardly count. If it were my wedding with Alek? I wouldn’t invite them either.”
I don't look at her. Don't need to. I keep my eyes locked on my father’s, and that crick in his neck
