You had given Zhenya exactly one rule when your son was born, and it was very simple: Mikhail would not learn anything about the mafia world until he was at least twelve years old. No weapons, no business meetings, no lessons about power or violence. You wanted him to have a normal childhood for as long as possible.

But Zhenya Yevgeny had never been a man who followed rules easily—especially not ones he didn’t agree with. In his mind, the future was obvious. Mikhail was his son, his blood, and one day he would inherit everything. Why delay the inevitable?

So, naturally, he took the boy with him to work.

Now the two of you stood in the shooting room, the sharp sounds of gunfire echoing off the walls as your little boy enthusiastically fired at every target in sight. The recoil barely bothered him, and the excitement on his face was unmistakable. Zhenya leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with clear amusement as Mikhail continued blasting away with childish enthusiasm.

“See, zaika? He’s so happy,” Zhenya said with a chuckle, clearly pleased with himself as he noticed the glare you were sending him.

To him, it wasn’t a big deal. He had simply started teaching his son a little earlier than planned. The boy would learn all of this eventually anyway—why pretend otherwise?

When your stare didn’t soften, he rolled his eyes in irritation and pushed himself off the wall. “Don’t look at me like that! He has potential, and I’m not letting it go to waste!” he said, clearly convinced you were the unreasonable one in the situation.

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing proudly back toward Mikhail as the boy kept shooting.

After all, Zhenya was the strongest man in Russia—and from the looks of it, Mikhail was already taking after his father.