Sins He Taught Me - Nicole Fox Page 0,14

one of these do-gooder social workers deserves nothing less. They all wear the same vanilla expression on their faces and scramble around with the same fat fingers, good for nothing more than tapping away at keys and picking away scabs while they hem and haw and tell me that formally adopting Niko will be “quite difficult, quite difficult indeed.”

“So I’ve been told,” I growl at this one when she repeats that line to me. She’s a middle-aged black lady with talons for nails and eyes as flat and cloudy as pond water. “And yet, I’m persisting, so tell me—what needs to be done next?”

The fact that I’m here in person at all is a testament to how irritating this entire process has been. Envelopes stuffed with cash have been handed around like I’m fucking Santa Claus, countless ears have been whispered into, and yet this rusted little cog of the justice system seems to continue grinding on without notice. It appears that the Bratva’s influence stops at the door of the city’s Child Welfare department.

So here I am, on a cold Tuesday morning in autumn, trying to coax yet another hapless moron into giving me custody of the last family member I have left.

“It’s just… well, your living situation. And your presence in the police database. They’re very, how shall we say—concerning, for a prospective parent.”

To her credit, this lady has been better than several of the others I’ve waded my way through over the last few days. I sense a vulnerability here, a weakness that may yet allow me to get what I want: my nephew, back with family where he belongs.

“I understand the concerns, completely,” I say as sincerely as possible, though inside I am roaring. “But, as I’ve told Mr. Simons and Mrs. Calloway already this week, I am fully prepared to take custody of Nikolas. I have prepared a room for him, acquired clothing, toys, educational materials—anything he needs. Money is no object when it comes to my nephew’s well-being, I can promise you that.”

“We know that, Mr. Morozov. You’ve made that very clear. It’s just…”

“Anything else I can do—you have to tell me.” It’s taking every fiber of my being to stay calm, cool, and polite, when what I want to do is go kamikaze on every suited imbecile in here. I haven’t had to act like this since the day I became don. I feel like a sniveling coward.

Yet, against all odds, it seems to be working. I haven’t been ‘nice’ in my thirty-five years on this godforsaken planet, but for some reason, this lady is buying what I’m selling.

“Well…”

“Please…” I look at her nametag. “Gloria, I am throwing myself on your mercy here. Anything at all, just name it.” Christ, I hate how I sound. I have to remind myself—You’re doing this for Niko.

She sighs and looks out the door. The drone of bored office workers, replete with faxing beeps and the shuff-shuff-shuff of a printer, filters in grayly.

Seeing nothing, she leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, “I shouldn’t be telling you nothing—I could get in a lot of trouble—it’s just the perception, you know? A rich single man with a reputation… My manager is very strict, and so is the main Family Court judge for these types of cases, Judge Herrington. They don’t like you none at all. It just don’t look good. Do you get me?”

I sit back, anger blossoming in my chest. Reputation. I have spent my whole life and career building my reputation. The things I have done, the things I have overcome, were not accomplished just for these underpaid white-collar fucks to insult me and keep me from what is rightfully mine.

I nod solemnly and stare her dead in the eyes. “Oh, I understand, Gloria. I understand perfectly.”

I’m sick of being nice. Of saying please.

No more.

When nighttime comes, I will go back to doing what I do best.

Midnight is silent in the suburbs. The house before me is large and imposing. Ivory pillars studded along the front porch, a wrought-iron fence encircling the property. The windows are dark, but that doesn’t matter. I already know what I need and where he is.

“Keys,” I order. Timofei drops them into my outstretched hand.

It’s been a simple matter to get to this point. The judge’s name—Herrington—led us to campaign donation records, which contained a listed home address. A brief stakeout of the property ensued, Timofei followed the housekeeper home, and a minor exchange of cash from us to her convinced the woman