Some of the men seated around the table look at me strangely, but I don’t give a f**k what they think about me. I’m my own man and I know who I am. And right now, I’m a man who wants to get the f**k out of here and find Corrie so I can explain. And apologize. And apologize more.
Leonid throws his head back. “You are Bratva through and through. When your father and I were boys in Russia …”
Leonid and my father each have a thousand ‘when I was a boy in Russia’ stories. I’ve heard all the hoopla about life after the czars and Stalin and when the Soviet Union became known as the former Soviet Union and life as they knew it splintered into pieces. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard my father start a sentence with, “f*****g Reagan...”
They were children for most of it. But in Russia, hist
