Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
I stood at my father’s side in his office, feet planted firmly on the ground and hands behind my back. I stared across the room as my grandfather walked through the doorway, flanked by two hulking figures dressed in dark clothing.
It had been years since I’d seen the man, yet he looked exactly the same.
Harsh. Focused. Brutal. His face was littered with scars, ranging from small little nicks to a massive slash across his cheek.
He didn’t have any tattoos. He was the type that found them pointless.
But, the scars on his body were his tattoos.
They told the story of the harsh life he’d lived, of how many people had tried to take him out and failed.
My last trip to Russia had been pleasant enough, the only memorable thing to happen being the threesome I had in the club before I left.
It was a business trip that ended in pleasure. We needed to pick up a shipment of guns and my father sent me to collect, preferring not to go himself.
My father’s relationship with Sergei was strained at best. They only communicated when absolutely necessary, mainly in regards to shipments or stock, if we needed more guns or Sergei wanted confirmation on a big order.
Sergei looked around the office with his nose in the air, distaste evident on his wrinkled face. He was an old man set in his ways. Tradition was hardwired into his DNA. I could tell from the way his eyes swept across the room that he hated how Americanised it was., the lack of Russian culture.
My mother was the one to decorate the house, and since her death my father hadn’t changed a thing.
If something broke, he fixed it. If one of the rugs got stained with food or blood, he got it professionally dry cleaned.
Our whole house was a shrine to my mother.
Keeping everything exactly the way it was before she died was my father’s way of preserving what he could of her.
He still had all her personal belongings.
All her clothes were hanging in the closet of the room they’d shared. He hadn’t gotten rid of a thing.
Father got to his feet, buttoning up his suit jacket.
He stepped around his desk and walked towards Sergei.
“Otets, dobro pozhalovat'. Nadeyus', u vas byl priyatnyy polet.” Father, welcome.
I trust you had a pleasant flight. He stopped in front of him and bowed his head slightly in a show of respect.
Sergei grunted in displeasure. “Priyatno bylo by voobshche ne byt' zdes'.” Pleasant would be not being here at all.
His crystal blue eyes cut to me. “Aleksandr, idi syuda i pozdorovaysya s dedushkoy. Ili ty poteryal vse svoi manery?” Aleksandr, get over here and say hello to your grandfather. Or have you lost all your manners?
Father’s jaw clenched in frustration at Sergei’s blatant dismissal of him.
I waited. Sergei may be my grandfather, but my first loyalty was to my father. He was the one I took orders from.
I didn’t trust Sergei. Not really. He was a brilliant man.
Smart, strong. But he was also conniving.
The only thing he cared about was the family name, not our family itself.
If he thought for one second you were in jeopardy of tarnishing that family name, he’d end you without a moment’s hesitation.
Even if you were his own flesh and blood.
Father glanced over his shoulder, locking eyes with me. He gave the slightest tilt of his head.
I moved out from behind the desk and walked over to them.
Sergei’s guards watched me closely. Too closely. It looked like Grandfather didn’t trust me either.
Sergei slapped me on the shoulder, pulling me in. “Akh, moy mal'chik. Posmotri na sebya. Ty stanovish'sya bol'she kazhdyy raz, kogda ya tebya vizhu,” Ah, my boy. Look at you. You get bigger every time I see you.
I begrudgingly accepted his affections. Sergei had said on numerous occasions I was his favourite. It had nothing to do with me as a person. For some reason I reminded him of himself, and that was the only reason he favoured me over the others. Even his own son.
“Zdravstvuy, dedushka.” Hello, Grandfather. I stepped out of his embrace, moving back to my father’s side. “Ty khorosho vyglyadish'.” You look well.
“Kak i ty, moy mal'chik. Kak i ty .” As do you, my boy. As do you. Sergei’s look of pride didn’t sit well with me. Like he was somehow responsible for me, for the man I’d become.
Everything I was, everything I am, I owe to my father. Not this man who didn’t even know when my birthday was.
I followed Father as he made his way behind his desk, taking a seat in his chair. “Priznayus', ya udivlen videt' vas zdes', otets. Chto privelo vas v takoi put'?” I’ll admit, I’m surprised to see you here, Father. What brings you all this way?
Sergei eyed the desk, looking for anything amiss.
Anything to nitpick and lecture my father about.
But there was nothing. It was the cleanest I’d ever seen it before.
Not a single thing out of place, no papers overflowing the mahogany surface, not one speck of dust. Just a closed notebook, some pens and a black photo frame with an old family photo in it.
In preparation of Sergei’s arrival, Father had made sure there was nothing he could possibly use as ammunition against him.
He’d made sure the house was spick and span, the repairs finished so Sergei wouldn’t ask questions about what happened (though the man likely knew already).
You couldn’t hide a thing from Sergei. He had spies everywhere.
“Uchityvaya, chto vy vydali moyu vnuchku zamuzh za ital'yantsev, vy ne dolzhny udivlyatsa.
Osobenno, kogda ya skazal tebe, chto khochu vudalt' jeje zamuzh za Tarasovykh,” Considering you wed my granddaughter to the Italians, you shouldn't be surprised.
Especially when I specifically told you I wanted her married off to the Tarasovs.
My eyes sliced to Sergei.
He what?
The audacity of this man. The arrogance to think he had any right whatsoever to do something like that.
“And I told you I wouldn’t be selling my only daughter off like some bitch in heat,” Father snapped, his fists clenching on the desk. He was so angry he’d slipped back into English, and Sergei was furious about it.
Sergei understood English, could even speak it if he wished. He just refused to. He only spoke in Russian, and he expected all of us to do the same.
“To, chto vy khotite, neznachitel'no.” What you want is insignificant.
Sergei narrowed his eyes in warning. “YA dogovorilsya s Tarasovymi.
V obmen na dostup k svoim marshrutam snabzheniya oni vyydut zamuzh za chlenov sem'i Volkovykh.” I made an arrangement with the Tarasovs.
In exchange for access to their supply routes, they would marry into the Pakhan family.
Father leaned back, careful not to let the smile he was holding back slip free. “Chto zh, dumayu, ochen' zhal', chto ona uzhe zamuzhem, ne tak li?” Well, I guess it’s too bad she’s already married, isn’t it?
If I didn’t know better, I would think Father planned the meet with the De Lucas to save Illayana from being married off to some guy in Russia. Could he have? Could he have orchestrated the whole thing in the hopes Illayana would choose Arturo?
I looked at the back of my father’s head. The man was cunning enough, that was for sure.
Sergei took a seat in one of the chairs opposite Father’s desk, laying his walking stick across his thighs.
His guards stood behind him, one on the left side, one on the right.
He smirked, his voice taking on a mocking tone as he said, “Chto zh, ya dumayu, khorosho, chto u tebya troye sovershenno zdorovykh synovey, kotoryye mogut zanyat' yeye mesto, ne tak li?” Well, I guess it's a good thing you have three perfectly healthy sons who can take her place, isn't it?
I stiffened as Sergei’s eyes landed on me.
Father growled. “YA skazal vam, kogda vy podnyali etot vopros, chto ya ne budu prinuzhdat' svoikh detey k braku, kotorogo oni ne khotyat.” I told you when you brought up this issue that I will not force my children into a marriage they do not want.
Sergei arched a condescending brow. “Eto srabotalo khorosho dlya vas, ne tak li?” It worked out well for you, did it not?
I gripped Father’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly to keep him from lashing out like I knew he wanted to.
My parents had an arranged marriage, and although it resulted in a loving union, originally it was something neither of them wanted.
My mother wanted to pursue her love of dance.
She’d been accepted into Juilliard and was packing up her life to move to New York when her father forced her into the marriage.
He threatened to break her legs if she put up a fight. To make it impossible for her to ever dance again, professionally or otherwise.
My father’s only desire had been to become Pakhan .
At eighteen, he didn’t want a wife. But Sergei didn’t give him a choice.
If he didn’t do as he was told, Sergei threatened to give the role of Pakhan to Dominik, and by that point the feud between them had reached boiling point.
My father refused to allow Dominik to win, so he begrudgingly accepted.
They hated each other when they first met. Mother resented him for the marriage and Father found her hard-headed, smart mouthed and cold. All traits he came to love about her in the end.
There was a bedtime story they used to tell us when we were kids, about the time Mother had tried to strangle him in his sleep and as retaliation, Father threw her off the second story balcony into the pool.
They would tell the story together, using sound effects, imitating each other’s voices, and it would end the same way every time, explaining that despite their harsh beginnings, they’d found love and comfort with one another.
Those moments were the closest I’d ever had to a normal childhood.