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Not wanting to look at my old man’s putrid face, and not having the option to pray for his disappearance, I busy myself with checking my weapons.
I dismantle my rifle slowly, taking my time in doing the task. “To what do I owe this unpleasant visit?”
“You were always an insolent little fucker,” he heaves, probably due to the effort he exerted to carry his belly here.
“Kind of learned from the best.”
I don’t look at him, but I can feel the heat of his glare hitting the back of my neck. He surely doesn’t waste time in letting his true colors show through.
Having obviously lost the battle of remaining in a standing position, he all but marches over and throws his weight on my chair. Right opposite to where I’m perching on the desk.
His face is too big for his neck, his hands are too fat, his veins are about to pop, and he’s sweating profusely, not even saved by Russia’s winter.
“I haven’t seen you in a year and this is the welcome I get?” He stresses his words in that holier-than-thou tone. The one he uses whenever he decides to ‘punish’ me.
Teach me the way.
Make me learn how to become his suitable ‘heir.’
“You haven’t seen me in a year, but I’m curious how you still expect some form of a welcoming ceremony.” I lift my head. “Have you earned some royal title I’m not aware of?”
“You fucking—” He lifts his hand off the desk. It’s a habit at this point that the old fuck has had trouble getting rid of.
I stare right at that hand, daring him to hit me.
Just touch me, Roman. I fucking dare you.
He lowers it back down, knowing full well I’d shoot him between the eyes.
I told him as much the last time he hit me—when I was fifteen. I said if he does it again, I’ll kill him, butcher his corpse, and bury it where the sun doesn’t shine.
He’s been taking it seriously. That and I’m way stronger than him. I can take ten of him combined.
Roman Morozov was once the strongest man I knew. Now, he’s nothing but a shadow of his former self. A clown of a fat old man whose body is riddled with enough diseases to put an entire hospital to shame.
He smooths his ugly gray tie that looks like it was stolen from a nineties B movie. “You haven’t been replying to my calls or letters. Why?”
“I told you why.” I click the magazine in place. “In fact, I told you the reason four years ago when I left.”
“I will not be accepting that nonsense. As my eldest son, it’s your duty to inherit the empire and lead the Morozov family.”
“That’s such an honor,” I say with the most sarcasm I can muster. “But I’m going to have to pass. Let Konstantin do it.”
“Konstantin is a reckless motherfucker that I wouldn’t trust with the safety of a goldfish, let alone my family.”
“You made him; you deal with him. Not my problem, not my talk to have.”
“Kirill.” He bangs both hands on the desk and rises to his full height. The motion is supposed to be some form of intimidation, but it looks more like a dying man’s last plea for help.
“Yes?”
“The situation has changed in the Bratva since you left. My position is no longer secure and there are even hints that I might be replaced by some new blood.”
“Thanks for the info. I’ll call when I find any fucks to give.”
A dark shadow falls over his features, mingled with a putrid sense of desperation.
A long time ago, when I painted his world black and he did the same to mine, I would’ve given my left ball to see him like this.
