2. And what if I don’t? – Raffiel
CHAPTER TWO
and what if i don’t?
RAFFIEL
Grey tie?
Red tie?
I look like a fucking idiot, holding each tie up against my crisp white button down. All I got was my father’s usual scowl before the orders came.
“Tonight is important, put on a suit, and get a bottle of red from the cellar… a good one, then meet me in the foyer in an hour.”
I’m not even sure what is happening tonight, but with my father it’s always the same, all orders, no explanation, and I fall in line every time. No questions asked. Forever a good little soldier. A free thinker is the highest form of treason.
Yes. I said treason.
Vahan Arakelian thinks he is a king, a king with a dynasty built on bloodshed and violence—all who are under my father’s command fall in line. And I am no exception. The alternative, well, no one wants to be on the other end of that blade. From experience, it’s neither forgiving nor kind.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t say these things out of admiration for my father. I say these things because they’re true. Vahan is known for being brutal. So, survival, not admiration, is what I choose every single day.
My father prefers neutral colors, so I go with the grey.
Without a thought, I curl the red tie back into a roll and neatly place it back in my glass display.
My mother would always say—rest her soul—how can you look your best if you can’t see what you’re working with.
She designed everything in our home this way.
Organized glass shelves, see-through cabinets, she put Marie Kondo to shame.
It’s one of the things that I miss about her.
She was the only person free of my father’s command.
She was his queen and the only one he bowed to.
When she left this earth, she took all the love that he possessed with her, including any affection he had for me.
The memory settles heavy in my chest as I button the cuffs of my sleeve.
Downstairs, I hear the low murmur of my father’s voice drifting through the house.
Vahan has the kind of voice that makes grown men sweat through thousand-dollar suits.
Calm. Controlled. My father has never once raised his voice, and I think that’s what makes him just as frightening as he thinks he is.
After all, he always says, “Senyakum amenalurr mardy amenamahats’u mardn e. ”
The quietest man in the room is usually the deadliest.
I pass through the back hall quietly and head to the cellar as instructed. My father’s wine collection is hands down the most intricately curated obsession I’ve laid eyes upon. With the limited time I have before his patience wears thin, I grab the best year I can find and head toward the foyer.
Vahan stands near the front door in a charcoal suit, adjusting the silver cufflinks at his wrist. Every inch of him looks composed. Untouchable. As if he wasn’t responsible for half the fear that kept this city breathing carefully around him.
His eyes lift to me briefly. Sharp. Assessing.
“You’re late,” he hisses, adjusting diamond cufflinks that glitter under the chandler.
I glance toward the grandfather clock. “By three minutes.”
“And yet, still late.”
Of course.
I tighten my grip around the neck of the wine bottle. “Where are we going?” I ask flatly.
He smooths nonexistent wrinkles from his sleeve before answering. “Dinner with an associate.”
Associate.
That word could mean a myriad of things with him. Politician. Criminal. Arms dealer. Family friend. Execution waiting to happen.
“Do I know them?” I ask carefully.
“No.”
Her.
That catches my attention. My father rarely entertained women outside of business after my mother died. Even rarer did he bring me along for it.
Before I can ask another question, he steps closer, fixing the collar of my jacket with rough fingers. The gesture should feel paternal. But it doesn’t. It feels more like a warning.
“You will be respectful tonight,” he says, his tone curt. “You will speak when spoken to. And you will remember who you are.”
An Arakelian.
A son of the Consortium.
A soldier before a man.
“I know the rules,” I mutter.
His jaw ticks once. “Do you?”
The air between us sharpens instantly. One wrong tone. One wrong look. That’s all it ever takes with him.
So, I swallow down the irritation clawing up my throat and nod once. “Yes, sir.”
That seems to satisfy him enough.
He reaches for the bottle in my hand, checking the label before giving a small approving hum. Funny how a bottle of wine earns more approval than I do most days.
“Good choice,” he grumbles, and I almost laugh. But instead, I follow him out of the house and into a waiting black sedan.
The drive is mostly silent except for the soft hum of the engine and the city lights bleeding across the windows. My father scrolls through messages on his phone while I stare out at the passing streets, loosening my tie just enough to breathe.
“You’re still at the top of your class?” he asks suddenly.
And there it is, the closest thing to interest.
“Yes.”
“And the transfer from U of M?”
I already know who he means. Some trust fund asshole in my economics course who thinks academic rivalry is a personality trait.
“I scored higher.”
“Good,” he says. One word. Flat. Expected.
Never I’m proud of you, just good. As if excellence is the bare minimum I owe him.
My eyes drift back to the city streets. A city that never sleeps, not here at the heart of it all.
Steel towers cut into the clouds while headlights smear across sun kissed streets. Money lives differently in Manhattan. It doesn’t hide behind gates and acres of land. It rises. Watches. Owns the skyline.
Our car glides beneath the towering glass high-rise before slowing beneath the awning of a private entrance. Polished black marble and gold trim, men in tailored coats standing guard like statues at the front doors—where billionaires disappear from the public eye the second they step inside.
One of the doormen immediately straightens at the sight of my father’s car.
“Mr. Arakelian.”
His voice carries the same careful respect everyone uses around Vahan, as if speaking too loudly might offend him somehow.
The valet opens my father’s door first, because of course he does.
Warm light spills from the lobby beyond the glass, all crystal chandeliers and veined white marble. Expensive in a way that’s meant to intimidate. The kind of place where even breathing feels like it costs money.
I step out beside my father, adjusting the sleeves of my jacket as the cold night air bites against my skin. High above us, somewhere near the top of the building, golden light glows from an entire stretch of windows overlooking the city. The penthouse.
For the first time tonight, my father actually looks… nervous.
It’s subtle. Almost invisible.
But I notice the way he smooths down the front of his suit a second time before we head inside. The way his jaw tightens briefly as we cross the lobby toward the private elevators.
Vahan Arakelian doesn’t get nervous.
Men fear him, politicians bend for him, and entire lives disappear at the sound of his name.
And yet, standing beside me in the mirrored elevator climbing toward the clouds, he looks almost… uncertain.
That unsettles me more than anything else tonight.
His hand stills briefly against my shoulder before he straightens his cuffs again.
“We are guests tonight,” he says carefully. “Act accordingly.”