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Hopeless, desperate, and on the verge of spilling his beloved pride at my feet, just so I would benefit him and his empire with my services.
Now, it brings nothing but the knowledge that he’s pathetic.
“What should I do so you’ll quit this fucking madness and come back home?”
“The time for you to do anything has long passed. And you, dear Papa, have no say in my life anymore.”
“Or maybe that’s what you think.”
I stare him in the eye, refusing to let him get into my head. He’s done it enough for a lifetime. Even if his threat is valid, I won’t let him have the power anymore.
“Are you done? Because if you are…” I point a thumb behind me. “The door is right there.”
“One last chance. Are you going to come back willingly?”
“Sure. Hit me up for your funeral.”
His face turns a deep shade of red, but my expression doesn’t change and neither does my demeanor.
My father leans forward and snarls. “You’ll regret this. I might have tolerated this stupidity, but my patience has limits, Kirill. You’re not suited for leading men on the battlefield, fighting other people’s wars and getting nothing but fuck all as a reward. You’re my heir and were always meant to lead and grow the Morozov Empire. Fight it all you want, but you’ll always be my son. You will always be likeme.”
My upper lip lifts in a snarl and I realize I almost let him into my head again. A blasphemy that shouldn’t happen in this lifetime.
“See you at home, son.” He pats my shoulder, then squeezes it before he’s out the door.
I grab the nearest object but stop myself before I haul it against the wall.
He will not get to me.
I already won my freedom and nothing will be able to take it away.
Nothing.
“Is everything okay?” Viktor asks after my father leaves.
I fling the rifle over my shoulder. “It will be. Let’s get this over with.”
7
SASHA
Ican’t breathe.
My feet refuse to move, and my heart thunders in a rhythm so intense, I’m surprised it hasn’t ripped its way out of my rib cage and spilled at my feet.
Invisible hands claw harder at my throat the longer I stare at the man’s face.
I wouldn’t have missed it if I’d tried. I couldn’t. The sight of his round face, thick build, and half-bald head is engraved in my memories as if I saw him yesterday.
He was at our house a few days before the massacre. My brother and cousins didn’t know, because they were forbidden from the office area, but I snuck about with Mama when she was bringing them drinks.
I hid by the wall and saw this same man sitting on the chair with a nonchalant coldness while Papa and my uncles spoke heatedly.
The reason I could never forget his face is because of the psychopathic-like disinterest he held for the whole conversation. I didn’t hear much because Mama quickly shut the door and shooed me away, but I heard Uncle Albert ask in a supplicating tone, “Just one more chance…”
I remember thinking a man like that wouldn’t give whatever chance Uncle Albert was asking for, and I was right. I have no clue how involved he was in the annihilation of my family, but I know for certain that he played a role in it.
A major one.
