Page 182 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

“I just want to make sure you’re—”

“Still the boss?” I interrupt. “Last time I fucking checked, I am. Text me his location.”

I hang up and hurl my phone into the passenger seat. The muscles in my jaw are aching from being held clenched so tight.

A minute later, my phone vibrates. The address belongs to a halfway house twenty minutes away. I punch the address into the GPS, but before I can set my phone down, it vibrates again.

ARSLAN:I’m headed that way, too. I’ll steer clear, but I’ll be nearby if you need me.

I consider telling him to stay the fuck away, but then I don’t bother. Arslan can be a pain in the ass, but he’s loyal. I’ll never fault him for that.

I make short work of the drive. The halfway house is an old apartment building. The bricks are faded and the front steps are cracking, but compared to where I grew up, it’s a fucking palace.

Strange that, now, I could buy the building he’s living in outright. It’s a good feeling.

It feels like justice.

The night manager is reluctant to let me in. “Can’t it wait until the morning? Visiting hours are over.” He checks the sign on the wall like maybe the hours might have changed when he wasn’t looking.

“Family emergency. I need to sort it out tonight. I’ll do it with your help or I’ll bang on every door until I find him,” I say calmly. “Your choice.”

The man can sense I mean every word. He sighs. “Who are you looking for?”

“Ioakim.” I say his name woodenly. It’s been a long time.

“Ioakim?” His eyebrow hits the roof of his forehead.

Son of a bitch. Arslan has bad intel. He isn’t here. He bailed out of the program and is back on the streets. Or maybe he already OD’d and I didn’t know. The thought of him dying alone in some godforsaken hospital should make me sad, but I don’t feel anything.

“Yeah. Ioakim Zhukova.”

The man grimaces like he smells something foul. He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards a room behind him.

“Funnily enough, he’s actually awake. I saw him go into the rec room ten minutes ago.”

I turn and stomp off without bothering to reply.

The “rec room” is just a large room with chipped wooden floors and a few card tables. Retractable basketball goals are tucked up against the ceiling, but the rims and nets are missing.

The empty space makes it easy to spot the dark-clad figure hanging out of the partially opened window. He tips his head back and blows out a long stream of cigarette smoke. It looks ghostly against the dark sky beyond.

“I thought people came to these kinds of places to get clean,” I say.

He jerks in surprise at the sound of my voice and knocks his head against the window frame. His mouth is pulled down in a deep frown when he turns around. Defensive, wary. Just like he’s always been.

But when he sees me, his face splits into a grin.

“Nikky.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my father face-to-face. Over ten years. He’s aged double-speed in that interval. His once-full face is gaunt now, creased with deep wrinkles, worn sallow with smoke. His eyes, the same pale shade as mine, are deep-set and hooded. What’s left of his hair is thin and gray.

He looks like a stranger.

In so many ways, that’s exactly what he is.

“Nikolai,” I correct. “How’s it going?”

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