Page 4 of Ruins
Our father shapes us with iron and fire, carving away every soft edge until only sharpness remains. Reverence. Fear.
He demands both, and hetakesthem by any means necessary.
I approach his study, every step a reminder of the man he made me. A man forged in his image, yet one who still—despite everything—walks willingly into the lion’s den.
I knock, bracing for the usual grunt of acknowledgment.
Instead—
“Come in.”
Not his usual bark.Too light. Too damn cheerful.
I push open the door, and the thick stench of cigar smoke wraps around me, suffocating and dense. It clings to everything, settling in the air like a warning. Familiar, yes—but today, it feels heavier.
At his desk, my father grins.Too wide. Too satisfied.
Like he’s already won a game I haven’t even realized we’re playing.
“Santo, my boy!” My father’s voice booms through the room, arms outstretched in mock warmth. He gestures to the seat next to Angelo.
Angelo sits stiffly, legs spread, hands folded in his lap. The black-on-black suit only makes him look more severe against the rich mahogany furniture. His eyes meet mine briefly before flicking downward.
Angeloneverlooks away.
Unless he’s hiding something.
The rare display of unease sets off warning bells in my head. The energy in the room shifts, settling into my bones like a weight.
This isnota check-in.
I move toward the empty chair, slow and measured, lowering myself into it without breaking eye contact with my father.
“What’s this about?” My voice is neutral, but the tightness in my gut says I won’t like the answer.
My father leans back, exhaling a thick stream of smoke as he taps his cigar against the edge of a crystal ashtray. “It’s a celebration,” he says, smugness curling at the edges of his mouth.
I don’t blink. My gaze flickers to Angelo, but his expression remains stoic, his focus locked on our father.
“And what exactly are we celebrating?”
“Your impending marriage,” my father announces, that same smug grin widening.
The words slam into me.
I don’t move.
Silence stretches, too thin, too heavy, broken only by the slow tick of the clock.
Finally, I let out a slow breath. “I must have misheard. Did you just say marriage?”
“I did.” His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “Your marriage will solidify our alliance with the Russians.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, biting back the surge of heat threatening to rise. It’s no secret that Angelo and Maksim Korsakov, the Pakhan of the Bratva, have been close since childhood. A decade ago, Maksim’s father stepped down, passing the reins to his son—something our father should have done years ago.
But he didn’t.
And now, this is the leash he’s tightening aroundmyneck.
