“It doesn’t matter what he said.” My dad walks into my small kitchen, grabs a glass from the cabinet next to the refrigerator, and fills it in the sink. He drinks all of it before he continues. “You need to apologize.” “Apologize?” My eyebrows are so high they are probably lost in my hairline. “You think the boss of the Volkov Bratva is going to accept my earnest apology? I’m not sure if you’re aware, Dad, but you mob leaders aren’t the most understanding of men.”
