Our mother is sitting on the edge of his bed, her face turned away from us. Her shoulders are hunched,her hands knotted together as though she’s already in mourning.
My mother gets off the bed and steps back so the two of us can flank our father. He’s lying propped upon a mountain of pillows. For the first time I can remember, he looks small. Not the grizzled warriorwho’s led the Bratva for decades. But a weak old man, fighting a battle he cannot win.
“My sons,” he rumbles, his voice raspy and weak. He tries to add something else, but his words failhim.
His skin has turned grey. Flecks of blood dot the corners of his mouth. Even his eyes seem smaller,rheumy, bloodshot with fatigue.
“Where is Andrei?” I rage, turning towards the door where two guards are standing like mute statues.“Get
