Page 21 of Demitri

“How does Vic know?”

“The woman is super observant, Demitri. I have a feeling she just knows.”

Aunt Linda laughs, picking up her fork to start eating again. “Yeah, she knows. She’s almost as good as me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Demitri. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“No,Krasotka, you haven’t fucked up. I’m not worried that your friends are going to turn into spies for the Bratva.”

“Are they in danger, too?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I’m still confused,” I confess louder so Aunt Linda can hear. “What does Demi—err—John need to do to stay safe? What can I do to help?”

“You can keep him hidden. Stop talking about him to your friends. You never know who might be listening.”

“You know this means she’s going to start calling me Beluga Boy again, right?” Demitri smirks.

“Might want to change that to Vodka Boy. Hate to tell you this, but that Beluga stuff is only popular to Russians.” She chuckles.

“Watch your mouth.” Demitri narrows his eyes.

“Hate to say it, but she’s right. All my years, I’ve never had someone ask for Beluga other than you.”

“But you still had it,” he points out.

“Not the kind you wanted. And that bottle I had was five years old, and you were the first person to take a shot from it.”

“Alright, we’re getting off topic. What’s the real plan for this woman you claim is my sister?”

Aunt Linda holds up her finger and stands from the table. We watch her walk into a bedroom or office, and when she comes back, she’s got files stacked up in her arms.

“Demitri, it’s not just one you need to worry about. It’s many. And if any of these other spawns of Ivan find out who they are, they could try the same thing.”

“Fuck me,” he gasps, looking at the stack in Aunt Linda’s arms. “How? Why?”

She stares at him with a look that even I understand.

“Right. Because‘Aunt Linda knows all.’”

“Exactly.” She smiles. “We’ve been keeping our eye on all the descendants of Ivan for a while.” She pauses, her face becoming serious. “Demitri, some of them are no longer with us.”

“Did he kill them?”

“They didn’t die of natural causes, that’s for sure.”

“How many?”

“Total? We’ve located about fifteen so far. Eight of them are still alive.”

“Your father killed seven of his own children?” I ask in horror. What kind of man was Ivan Pavlov?

“Why?” Demitri asks.

“The sons he found, well, they aren’t exactly breathing any longer.”

“What about the daughters?” Demitri demands to know.

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