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The new style fits me better; it accentuates my almost-silver eyes. At least, that's what people have always said they look like. I think my eyes are grey, but not everyone agrees. That, or everyone I talk to are just idiots.
~
I walk towards the rustic kitchen within my father’s house, hoping to find something small to snack on. I’ve been forced to continue doing business here since my space is still in the process of being built. It had taken a long time to convince my father to allow me to leave the “nest” and venture in my own ways, but he eventually gave me the go-ahead. Soon, I won't be forced to share the same space as these other heathens.
The scent of burning flesh that lingers on my body makes me think of jerky or smoked meat. I’ve worked well into the night without even noticing. This always happens when I torture someone. It's cathartic and almost ritualistic for me to murder after the sun goes down. The sun is just starting to creep through the window above the dining room table.
When I round the corner, I find Kias sitting at the counter on one of the metal barstools. I don't suppose he has anywhere else to go, ever. He’s always sitting on the same stool, no matter what time I come in or out.
“Hello, fuckface,” he murmurs without bothering to look up at me.
“Kias.”
“How’s your murderous evening been?”
“Bloody and full of shit. Yours?” I raise my eyebrow, questioning his sudden interest in my dealings.
“Ugh. Can you, for one day, not stab someone? It makes me nauseous just thinking about it.” He points his finger to his throat, pretending to gag. Kias has always been overdramatic, like when he storms out of a room in an argument or makes a stupid facial expression when he disagrees with something.
I glance at him from behind the fridge door. Looking him up and down, I take in his fake tanned skin and dirty brown hair. He's a pretty boy. Someone who takes more interest in appearance than in business. It disgusts me to know that we are related.
I hate my brother. Kias is the reason our mother died, and he has never seemed to care. When he was four, he asked our mother to take him to get ice cream. It was late at night, raining, and yet, she agreed. She never came back home. The police showed up at our front door, handing us my crying baby brother.
That was one of two times in my life I ever had contact with an officer before becoming the second in charge after my father. Kias was covered in blood and bruised to high hell. The car wreck decapitated my poor mother upon impact, and I will never forget the mental image that took root in my thoughts.
I’ve blamed him ever since for her death, even though I know it wasn’t technically his fault. The way my father treated him afterward is what angers me the most. I am so fucking sick of Kias being the golden boy, my father's favorite child. Plus, ever since that night, he still hasn’t been able to stomach the sight of blood.
Fucking pussy. How does he expect to love a woman properly if just the idea of blood makes him sick?
“Don’t be a bitch, Kias. It’s just a little blood, plus they fucking deserved it. They put their hands on Lolli. You, of all people, should know I hate people touching the things that I own.”
“Shut the fuck up, Atlis. She isn’t a thing. She’s a human, just a fucking stripper.” His face looks as if he has smelled something disgusting. “And you don’t own her. No one can own people.”
“Yeah, say it with disdain.” I roll my eyes. He knows that isn't what I meant, yet he sits here like a preacher. Telling me how to act like I'm a sheep of the Shepherd. “Lolli is a person, I know that. They’re all people. Anyway, I don’t have time for your nonsensical bullshit. I have things to do other than sit here and be Father’s bitch.”
“Whatever, Atlis. If you could see the amount of blood on your hands, then you’d be sick to your stomach as well. It’s disturbing. Don’t you have your own place to go to? Why are you always lurking around here?” Kias scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Children,” my father abruptly announces as he walks in. He motions for me to move aside so he can get into the fridge that I'm currently occupying. None of us eat full meals anymore, so snacks are the staple food around here. “No more arguing, boys. Atlis, I assume since you're here finding food, you’ve finished your little ‘project’?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, moving over to the counter and leaning on it opposite Kias.
“Very well. I need you to go on another hunt. Follow me. We will discuss this in my office.”
I nod, grab an apple, and follow him out of the kitchen. We don't have any more jerky sticks because of Kias, or else I would have grabbed one of those. Another reason I hate him- he always eats my fucking food. Once we get to the office, I turn the chair around, spread my legs, and sit backwards. I rest my arms on the back of the worn wooden chair, my attention directed at my father.
His office should be on the cover of the “I had a designer do this because I have no personality” magazine. A globe sits on one of the many bookshelves, collecting dust and whatever else flies around in the air. A large circular window perches above my father, giving a false sense of hope about the beauty of the outside world. His desk has been passed down through generations and was built of old mahogany, the scratches and imperfections telling stories of past generations. The deep maroon walls bring the room together, creating an older feel to the space.
I take a bite of my apple, the juices flying from my mouth. Normally, I would be careful of where the spittle lands, but not here. My father deserves the sticky juice splattered all over his study. The only reason I do these little ‘projects’ is because he refuses to do them himself. He doesn’t want to get his precious hands dirty.
“Okay, there’s a man named Eric. He’s been the brains behind the thefts happening within our territory. I assume he works for Mr. Mitu, but I’m not sure. I also found out from my sources that he happened to be the one who shot my car up last week. Go and check it out. I’m sending you alone, so be careful. Report back once you take care of him,” he says, dismissing me from his office with a wave of his hand, ignoring me for the papers on his desk. He never glanced up at me, which is just normal for him.
“My fucking pleasure. I’ll go now.” Without waiting for a reply, I stand up. I take the apple core and drop it down onto the desk. It rolls towards my father and lands on his lap. “Here, have an apple, Father.” I flip the chair back around, grab the file he is holding with an outstretched arm, and shut the door as I leave.
I walk back through the kitchen and pass Kias, who is still sitting on the barstool. We make eye contact, his face plastered with a disapproving frown. I lift my lips, snarling as a reply to his silent remark. He quickly casts his eyes down, looking back at his phone and ignoring me.
“Bitch,” I mutter while passing behind him.
Chapter 3
