I curse his stubborn ass under my breath before entering the room at the end of the elegant hallway we just walked down. This entire half of the compound is segregated from the rest. It doesn’t just lower the possibility of my father picking up germs, it also maintains the ruse we’ve been running the past four years. No one knows he is sick. Not even Zariah’s father, who was once his closest confidant. I haven’t even told Nikolai.
I’m not surprised to find my mother floating at the side of the room. She’s far enough away my father can’t see the concern on her face, but close enough he still knows she’s around. Although marrying him wasn’t her choice—name one college freshman who would choose to marry a man double her age?—the old man’s black, wilted heart eventually grew on her. She still holds some disdain from his demand, my and Wyatt’s American names are proof of this, but for the most part, she’s been a good wife who has served him well the past thirty-eight years.
If it weren’t for her love and guidance, the Yurys wouldn’t be as powerful as we are. My father’s wish to claim his queen was so great, his monarchy nearly toppled within a year of him gaining the reins.
My mother begged me time and time again not to follow in my father’s footsteps. That’s why I’m stunned by her motives of late. She’s quick to point out she never chose her life, but she has no issues forcing Zariah into the same position. It doesn’t make any sense. Ari and my mother were friends for years before Ari’s untimely death. That’s how my mother had access to the tape she used on me last month when my temper got the best of me. She and Ari shoved it in my and Zariah’s faces at every opportunity they got.
That wasn’t the worst of their neuroses, though. They planned our wedding long before we understood the word “commitment,” and if the increase in staff hours to clean already spotless areas of our compound is anything to go by, much less the mountain load of silk tulle I saw during my travels, my refusal to wed Zariah last month has only delayed the inevitable.
My mother is following Ari’s wish for her only daughter to wed in an elaborate ceremony to the letter. By keeping Ari’s dream alive, it weakens the burden on her conscience that she wasn’t there for Zariah as she had promised when she took on the role of her godmother.
I’m not as eager to relieve her of the burden.
Until she confesses the real reason Zariah is here, she’s on my shit list. I will forever love and admire her, but it is secrets like this that destroy families. Zariah’s family discovered that the hard way. I won’t let that happen here.
To everyone outside of my realm, I rule with intimidation, but those closest to me know the real me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a soft ruler by any means. If you do me wrong, I’m more than willing to follow through with any threats I issue, and I’ll never shed a tear no matter how many lives are lost, but I also have a sense of what is right and wrong.
Killing a man who bid for another’s wife was the right thing to do.
Marrying Zariah is wrong—I think.
I push aside my reflection for a better time when I stop at the side of my father’s hospital bed. This wing of our home was once his office. He struck fear into the hearts of many men in this very room, myself included. Now he’s wrinkled, old, and chuffing down a cigar like his days aren’t numbered. Just seeing him so helpless eases some of the rigidity in my spine.
My jaw muscle spasms from my last confession. He’s a seventy-six-year-old man with failing lungs, yet I still fear his wrath. This is not me, nor the reason I went to the US for so long. I went there to step out of my father’s shadow, to become my own man in my own right, yet what happens upon my return? I step right back into his silhouette. It is why I’m called “Ghost,” because no one can see me in my father’s shadow.
Frustrated, I snap, “If you aren’t willing to accept the doctors’ advice, why am I paying them?”
My father’s eyes stray to me. They’re as dark as the man hiding in the shadows, worldly as a man who has outlived his enemies by nearly two decades. The words he spits out are brittle, like the cane he snapped over my back when I was a boy. “So you are home? I had heard rumors.”
He didn’t hear rumors. He would have known about my return the instant my private jet’s tires hit the runway. I also wouldn’t be standing here if he hadn’t demanded that Lenin bring me. I should be ashamed this is the first time I’ve seen him in over seven months, but I’m not. What could I possibly achieve from visiting him? He is the same now as he was months ago—as stubborn and as opinionated as ever.
I wait for him to cough up the half a lung he needed to speak before jerking my chin up. “Been back a few weeks. Thought I’d best give Matvei some assistance before he realizes we’re underpaying him for his services.”
“Matvei? Why didn’t your brother run things while you were away?”
For the first time in my life, I lead with honesty. “Wyatt isn’t ready—”
He may have two lungs close to collapsing, but nothing can stop my father’s vibrating timbre when he’s angry. “I don’t give a fuck if the boy isn’t ready; we’re not taking on interns. This is his family legacy!”
I hear my mother huff when he refers to Wyatt as “the boy.” Our father has never called us by our given names. I’m either referred to as “Ghost,” or I’m not mentioned at all. He knows why our mother gave us non-Russian names, and this is his way of rebelling like she did nearly twenty-nine years ago.
Ignoring the tick in my jaw, I step closer to my father’s bedside. Air whizzes from my nose when I take in whathaschanged the past seven months. He still has the roar of a tiger, except now it’s in the shell of a kitten. He’s weak, bitter, and old—nothing I hope to emulate. As far as I am concerned, the sooner he dies, the better. Then my mother won’t be forced to watch him wilt away. She won’t need to listen to his rants on how his sons are nothing like him, and she’ll be free from the life she was forced into at the tender age of nineteen.
“When Wyatt is ready, I’ll be more than happy to hand him some of the power. Until then, I’ll continue running the show while you lie around remembering the good old days.”
I’ll give it to the old man, weeks, perhaps even days from his death, he still hasn’t learned the words “back down.” He fists my shirt so firmly, my buttons pop. I have no issues removing his grip—if that is what I want.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction. He wants me to react, to prove to my mother I am just like him. I willneverdo that. I work hard and play hard, but I’ll never be his bitch.
Recognizing I’m not going to respond as he wants, my father releases me from his grasp. He pushes me back far enough to lock his eyes with Lenin behind my shoulder. “Gethimout of here.”
I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face when Lenin’s feet remain put. My father is the only person in this room game enough to test me. Not even his henchman budges an inch when Lenin fails to comply with my father’s order. Only a few years ago, Arman would have removed Lenin’s intestines where he stood. Now, even he knows his place.
With a smirk, I pivot to face the doctors hiding in the shadows. They’re not the standard ones you’ll find at a hospital. You won’t find their skillset at any universities either. They have skills years of battle could never train. They’re ex-Soviet Union medics.
“Install the respirator.” When they give me a look, one that reflects they don’t like their chances of that happening without bloodshed, I murmur, “Handcuff him to his bed if you must. If he wishes to prolong his stay here, we may as well make it as uncomfortable as possible.”
When Arman steps forward, preparing to say something, I cut him off with a glare. “If my wishes aren’t adhered to, I will return. You won’t like the outcome of my second visit.”
