Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  This is why they call me the Bull.

  So when men like Anton, who stand close enough to my position to claw his way over me on his path to the top, seem so openly elated, it puts a sour taste in my mouth.

  But I know he’ll only keep talking in circles if I don’t humor him. “And what opportunity is there so great that you drag me out of the Motherland for it, Anton?” Some rivals to deal with, I have no doubt. Anton is a man to keep his friends close and his enemies closer, and as long as I am both, I could be the perfect weapon in his hands while I’m here.

  “For you, my friend?” he says as a flight attendant comes by with another tray of drinks, and Anton takes a glass for himself. “Let me tell you. Sergei Slokavich. You know his name, do you not?”

  Now my eyebrows furrow, and I know I’m being challenged. Sergei was a Bratva kingpin in the Brighton area for years. He was also the leader of one of the biggest sex slavery rings the Bratva has ever boasted, and it raked him in so much money that he could afford to ship his bastard son over to live with him in luxury, wine, and women. Until recently, at least.

  “I know he is dead,” I say firmly, looking Anton in the eye, “killed by someone from within. How could I have not heard? You’re toying around a point, Anton.”

  “Indeed he is,” Anton says, grinning piggishly at me. “He and his spoiled brat of a son, along with his legacy, dead and thoroughly smeared. And there’s a bit of a power vacuum in his place. Brighton Beach is not the most stable locale in the country, for all its potential.”

  I frown, sitting back. “So I’m to be your sword as you fight your way to the top, is that it?” I say, crossing my legs. “You of all people should know that there will be no shortage of contracts that I’ll be willing to take here, Anton. I won’t be playing bodyguard and murder for you around the clock.”

  “Konstantin!” he cries, holding his heart and feigning a dramatic strain. “Konstantin, my boy, you do me such a disservice! To think I’d abuse you so! Shame on you for being so rude, especially to the man who’s giving you news of your new promotion.”

  I blink, not certain I’d heard Anton correctly, but as he grins proudly at my surprise, I realize that he isn’t joking, and I can’t help but look dumbfounded.

  “That’s right, my friend,” he says, sticking his hand out for me to shake, “you’re not accompanying me to America — I’m escorting you, the new head of operations here in Brighton Beach.”

  I extend my hand to meet his, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. “Me, replacing Slokavich?” I repeat. “I’m being made the pakhan of Brighton Beach?” I feel a small smile tugging at my face to match Anton’s jolly laughter, and he nods, patting my hand.

  “Just so, Anton, just so — or I suppose I should be calling you boss now, eh?”

  The news is almost dizzying. I knew that I was respected among the mafia, and it’s true that I’ve been climbing the ranks so quickly that some might call me ambitious. But the more I think of the circumstances, the more it makes sense, to my surprise.

  “Konstantin, as one of the men involved in this decision, I can say wholeheartedly that this is a long time coming” he goes on, leaning back in his chair and looking out the window fondly at the city. “You’ve been our most capable man in Moscow since I first scouted you in the prison and paid your way out. You’ve been responsible for some of the grandest power plays the Bratva in Russia has ever seen. But don’t think your powers of leadership have gone unnoticed,” he says, and I can’t help but notice how heavily he’s laying on the compliments. This explains the lavish private jet and the friendly treatment, I think to myself.

  “Brighton Beach’s men are in a position to make a lot of changes in the next few months,” he says, taking on a more serious tone. “Power has shifted rapidly, and while Brighton is a thoroughly Russian haven, we cannot limit ourselves to that corner of the metropolis alone. There is much more up for grabs, and much more to be wrestled from the other mobs out there.”

  I lean forward, steepling my hands. “So the movers and shakers in NYC have their eyes on who, the Irish? The Italians?”

  “All that and more is yet to be seen,” he says, taking a long swig of his drink. “And many of those choices will be up to you, Konstantin. All I know is that we need someone capable running the show if we’re to keep from getting cornered in the city. A weak pakhan in Brighton could mean the next mob over gets ambitious, and then you’ve got a great pile of bullshit on your plate,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

  I nod, feeling my ears pop as we start to descend even further, the jet making its way to the airport. As we descend, I can’t help but think about what this new power structure is going to mean for my business. Power structure or no, I am and always will be a contract killer. I am swift, I am silent, and I strike with precision. I have no doubts that I can run a small city’s Bratva. But that part of New York is a beast bread on deep-seated corruption of precisely the type I’ve stood against in all my time as a made man.

  And now, to find myself with a position of authority thrust upon me in the middle of what is certain to be a tremendous shift in power? Something in the back of my mind tells me that I’m being set up for a fight. That I’m being tossed into a pit of fresh, ambitious enemies ready to come at me from all sides while I get my bearings.

  Another part of me welcomes that challenge.

  “We’ll worry about the business side of things tomorrow, though,” Anton interrupts my thoughts, tapping the window and pointing down towards the harbor. “You have the kinds of accommodations you can imagine for a man of your stature. We have a penthouse on the upscale side of town ready for you now, and you’ll be able to stay there tonight, if you can find your way to a taxi. And I’ll be surprised if you can, considering the little get-together the others have planned for you. See that ship? Five docks down from the bottom edge there, the one with the blue flags along the sides. That’s our yacht for tonight.”

  “Our yacht?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

  “Indeed,” he says with a grin. “Because, my friend, your new associates are going to want to meet you. After all, what is a promotion without a celebration?”

  Rosie

  As my dad yanks the van into reverse and starts backing out onto the street, I watch Daisy and Sunny get smaller and smaller, their freckly faces morose and concerned. It makes my heart ache to see such grown-up fear and weariness on such young faces. Their eyes are wide and honey-brown like our mother’s, but right now every fleck of color looks to have been dip-dyed in sadness. I have to fight the urge to kick the passenger door open and jump out of the moving van, run back to my girls and wrap them in a big hug.

  I don’t know where my father is taking me, but some small echo of intuition in my brain gives me a sense of finality. Like this is the end of one thing, and the beginning of something else. Suddenly, I am filled with urgency, like I need to go back and memorize Daisy and Sunny’s faces, hold them in my arms and imprint their warmth on my soul, just in case I never get another chance.

  But that’s silly, right? Chaotic, catastrophic thinking?

  Surely I will see them again. This is probably just some half-baked attempt on my father’s part to bond with me or whatever. As if he’s ever done anything to deserve a bond with me in the past eight years, anyway. In fact, I reason with myself, it’s more likely that he just wants me to take part in a scam of some kind. One of my dad’s rarely successful and never legal get-fast-quick schemes he comes up with while he’s drunk off his ass.

  Or maybe, since it’s my birthday, he’s just going to use me to score free drinks at some seedy little bar. Especially since a lot of the bars he frequents could not care less about the legal drinking age. I’m only eighteen, not twenty-one, but as much business as these bars get from my father, they’ll certainly make an exception. Hell, my dad probably keeps most of these places in business single-handedly, his alcoholism is so intense.

  “Dad, where are we going?” I a
sk finally, breaking the silence. He grins, the faint traces of a once-handsome face appearing momentarily. Once in a blue moon, when a particularly good mood strikes him, he can almost be mistaken for the same charismatic man he once was long ago. But today, I know better than to trust his smile. The father I knew and loved is long gone, buried under years of wandering lost. My mother is the one who died, but in reality I lost both of my parents that fateful day.

  “Well, if I tell ya, it won’t be a surprise, would it?” he replies teasingly, stealing a sidelong glance at me as he plows through a four-way stop without even acknowledging the stop sign. A woman in a Volkswagen bug honks at us and my dad flips her the bird, the grin never leaving his face.

  I am fairly accustomed to my father’s horrifying driving habits, after years of riding shotgun in this death trap. As far as Frank Barnes is concerned, traffic laws are really just loose guidelines only losers and sober people adhere to. Needless to say, I taught myself how to drive without his assistance years ago, going to a public library to go through an online driving course on the public access computers. My ultimate goal is to someday have enough money saved to buy a beater car with flat cash, which will give me much more freedom and independence from my father’s control. And that, in turn, will allow me to take better care of my sisters.

  Which is why I really ought to be spending today trolling for a job, not tearing across town on some drunken goose chase with my dad.

  “Will we be back in time for lunch? Because there isn’t any food in the house and the girls are hungry,” I keep going, trying to keep my voice even. I’ve learned to control my tone and demeanor, adjusting my attitude to suit whatever mood my dad is in at the moment. It’s so easy to accidentally set him off that I have become a master mind reader.

  I can tell from the moment my dad walks through the door what state of mind he’s in. And even when I am bristling with rage or on the verge of tears, I can make my voice sound peppy, sweet, and totally innocent. It’s a good skill to have, and one that has truly allowed me to survive despite my dad’s tendency toward violence. Especially now that I’m older. When I was a kid, he wasn’t as intimidated by me. He knew his word was the final word and I would have no way of defying him. But nowadays, he’s weirdly self-conscious and insecure, because deep down he knows that I am more intelligent and competent than he is. I’m not a little girl anymore, and I don’t really need him at all. So if he detects even the slightest hint of condescension or defiance in my voice, he loses his mind.

  So, I have adapted to make myself sound as naive and gentle as possible.

  “Oh, no. This is an all-day affair, Peanut!” Dad exclaims, and I wince at the use of his old nickname for me. It’s not that I think I’m too old or too cool for a cutesy nickname or anything. It’s just that it reminds me of a time when things were better, back when he said that nickname with real affection.

  “Could we possibly swing by later and bring them some food then, maybe? It’s just that I feel guilty having a fun birthday with my dad while Daisy and Sunny are at home—”

  I am interrupted by my dad smacking his hand hard on the steering wheel, making me jump. He gives me a cold glare, his jaw clenching. “Forget about the brats for five fucking minutes, will you?” he demands, rifling his hand back through his greasy dark hair. I can’t remember the last time I noticed him use the shower at the house.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” I say quietly, folding my hands in my lap and looking away out the window. He chuckles grimly.

  “Damn it, Peanut. You always know just how to push your poor old dad’s buttons, don’t ya? Always have. Sorry, kiddo,” he says, not sounding even remotely sorry. I know his apologies are just empty words by now, mocking and meaningless. He can apologize a million times without changing a single thing about himself.

  We ride in silence for a while longer, the van rumbling down the road. I dare not ask again where the hell we are headed, and it seems to me like we’re going in the opposite direction of all my dad’s favorite bars. We aren’t even going in the direction of Atlantic City. We seem to be going northeast, from the signs we’re passing.

  We stop briefly at a liquor store, my dad telling me, “Sit tight. I’m just gonna go in and grab a six pack. Nothin’ too crazy, but you ought to let loose on your birthday!”

  I don’t drink. At least, I never have before, except for when my dad has forced me to join him for a beer on the back porch. I think he just gets lonely sometimes, and he wants someone else to fall down this terrible rabbit hole with him so he doesn’t feel so alone and pathetic. He’s suffering, and he wants everyone else to suffer with him. Especially me. He’s always making comments about how much we’re alike, how I’m just the girl version of him. I don’t see it, except for in my looks, but I would not dare tell him he’s wrong.

  And I am terrified of turning out just like him. So alcohol has always been off-limits for me. Besides, I still have three more years before I can legally drink — not that laws have ever stopped my dad from doing whatever the hell he wants.

  A few minutes later, he emerges with a six-pack of Budweiser’s and hops into the driver’s seat, twisting a bottle open and handing it over to me. I reluctantly take it from him, hoping he won’t notice if I just refuse to drink any of it. But to my dismay, he gives me a nod of encouragement and says, “Go on! Take a swig! It’s your birthday, damn it.”

  “Yeah, but I’m only turning eighteen, Daddy. Not twenty-one,” I remark, forcing myself to smile. He rolls his eyes and starts the car, waving his hand to urge me to do it anyway.

  “Those laws don’t mean nothin’ for people like you and me,” he comments, cracking open a bottle for himself, even though he’s driving. Frank Barnes has no qualms about driving under the influence, nor driving with an open container. It’s a miracle he’s never been pulled over and arrested for either of those things. Actually, it’s more like a curse. I keep hoping one of these days he’ll get arrested and that will knock some sense into him.

  But I know that will never happen. He’s too far gone. He would rather die drunk in a holding cell than live sober. Because if his mind is clear, he’s forced to be alone with his thoughts, and I think that’s a fate worse than death for my father.

  Finally, I oblige him by having a sip, bending down so that I can hide it a little better from any passing cars. Dad lets out a whoop of satisfaction, grinning proudly.

  “That’s my girl! We’re gonna have a good time today, kiddo,” he says, turning on the radio. An old Stevie Ray Vaughan song comes on and Dad starts singing along in his usual loud, off-key tenor. I remember laughing at his singing as a kid, giggling hysterically as he tried unsuccessfully to sing along with my mother, who had the voice of an angel. Sure, he might have sounded awful back then, but at least there was spirit in his voice. He was happy then, and my mom was just happy to have someone sing with her, even if he couldn’t stay on beat or hit the right note.

  Nowadays, his singing just breaks my heart. His throat has been ravaged by years of alcohol abuse, and he pauses between verses to take long, deep swigs of his beer. I slump down in the seat and take the occasional sip of my own bottle, staring morosely out the window as we rattle down the highway. I wonder if he even has a game plan in mind, or if we’re just joyriding for the hell of it. Either way, I can’t get my mind off of Sunny and Daisy. I just know their little stomachs are growling, and every minute they’re home alone causes me extreme anxiety. I should be there for them. I should be home.

  We ride for about two hours, my dad getting progressively more intoxicated and louder as the time wears on. We cross over the state line into New York, and by now I am abandoning any hopes of being home for lunch time. Or even dinner. I have a feeling we’re going to be gone for quite some time, and I curse myself inwardly for not going out and buying food with the last of my meager savings yesterday, while I still had the chance.

  Finally, we find ourselves chugging along a road that hugs the coastline, the sandy beaches in plai
n sight through my window. I notice that we’re not too far from the Big Apple, approaching an area I believe is called Brighton Beach. We pull to a stop in a parking lot adjacent to a big, fancy harbor. The docks are filled with tourists and pot-bellied men with their much younger and blonder arm candy. Pure white sails and high masts stretch into the bright blue sky, dark waves rocking the boats from below.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask, frowning in confusion.

  “Going on a little boat ride, Peanut!” my dad declares, sliding out of the driver’s seat and coming around to yank me out of the passenger’s side. Dressed in my simple black leggings and oversized red-and-black plaid flannel, I feel extremely out of place here. And my dad, in his stained white T-shirt and musty old jeans, looks more like a homeless man than a yachtsman. For a minute, I am paralyzed with the fear that my dad has truly lost it — maybe he’s brought us here with some bizarre fantasy of stealing a sailboat. I really could not put it past him to do that.

  But when he takes me by the hand and pulls me along to the wooden docks, he seems to know exactly where he’s going. Like he’s actually planned something, for once in his life. For a split second, I wonder if maybe he really has somehow booked us a bizarre birthday boat tour or something. However, when we end up boarding a boat filled with loud music, booze, and half-naked women accompanying various sleazily-dressed men to makeshift craps and blackjack tables on the deck… I realize why we’re really here. This is just another venue for my dad to gamble. Of course, I can’t quite figure out why the hell he needs to have me with him to do this, but there’s no way I can ask him without inciting his rage.

  We’re both severely underdressed, but while a few of the beautiful and Botoxed women give us curious glances, everyone else pretty much accepts us. I wonder who the hell would allow my dad on such a fancy, elaborate boat. Who does he know here? How did he manage to land us a place on this yacht?