Page 167 of Violent Possession
We share a moment of mutual and absolute understanding. We don’t need to say the name. Vasily.
“He called before he came,” she says. “Asking if ‘father had already decided on an heir’. Insensitive. Not even you are like that.”
I suppress the urge to laugh. There are no good examples of sensitivity in this family.
“Ambition makes him careless,” I comment, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, more out of habit than desire.
“Careless?” Angélica lets out a short, humorless laugh. “He’s paranoid. He fired half of his personal security team last week.”
“Vasily never cared about the rules,” I say, taking a sip of the champagne. “He only pretends to.”
And then, speak of the devil, the door opens one last time.
Vasily enters, impeccable. A perfectly tailored suit. The smile is almost imperceptible, just a shadow of vanity at the corner of his lips, but he makes a point of scanning the hall before landing on me and Angélica.
“Alexei. Angélica,” he greets, his voice as smooth as silk, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s been a while since we all gathered.”
He stops in front of me. His gaze travels over my bruises. He quickly hides a flash of genuine satisfaction under his diplomat’s veneer.
“It seems the night was more physical than usual. I thought you’d left bar brawls for our cousin.”
Ivan, a few feet away, grinds his teeth. He wants to respond. Vasily ignores the reaction, as if Ivan were a decorative piece in the room and not a family member about to explode with rage.
“I suggest you save your jokes for the interrogation,” I say, ignoring the bait.
Vasily tilts his head theatrically. The smile doesn’t falter, but a sudden hardness appears in his eyes. Subtextually, we’ve been killing each other for weeks, maybe years.
“Of course,” he says. “I would never make father wait.”
Vasily looks up to the top of the staircase, just as the double doors of the office swing open.
Dimitri appears at the top of the steps. Impeccable in a black jacket, his face half in shadow, he scans the hall.
“Mr. Malakov is waiting for you,” Dimitri announces, not addressing anyone in particular. But the order is for the three of us. “Now.”
The fake laughter dissolves in the air. All the clusters of relatives atomize, opening a silent corridor through which only we, the heirs—and the wife—must pass first. I feel the weight of eyes behind me. They don’t want to miss a syllable of this audience.
I leave the champagne on a coffee table and go.
Angélica accompanies me, but unlike usual, she doesn’t try to soften the impact: she stares at the floor, moving heavily. Ivan, right behind, is tense, but the pain forces him to maintain his dignity. Vasily closes the group, his steps light, his posture relaxed, as if going to receive a medal.
At the top, Dimitri waits for us, motionless. He holds the door open, and the smell of mahogany, leather, and sickness hits me before the gaze.
We enter, one by one, and the environment swallows our names and reduces us to mere avatars of the family drama. The walls covered with stuffed books, legal treatises, and war manuals only serve to intimidate those who do not belong to this blood. The Persian rug absorbs our steps, and the solid oak desk, with grotesque carvings of eagles devouring lambs, takes up half the room.
The old man is there. My father was always a statue of flesh: impossible to bend, impossible to ignore. Now, sunk into the leather chair, he is more bone than muscle. The cashmere blanket on his legs betrays the body’s failure, yet his eyes, under arches of white eyebrows, still burn. Beside him, an oxygen cylinder hisses that death is already circling the room.
The other relatives enter behind us, disciplined. They spread out on the sofas and armchairs, leaning against the walls, all looking toward the center, toward the power vacuum that no one dares to occupy. The old man doesn’t speak.
There are three chairs positioned in front of the desk. The black leather creaks as we sit, forcing our bodies into an involuntary contact with fate. Each of us—Ivan, me, and Vasily—occupies a carefully choreographed position in the power dance: Ivan, on the left, vibrating with anger and resentment, ready to go for anyone’s jugular; me, in the center, bearing the weight of the old man’s gaze like a shield; Vasily, on the right, with an unctuous silence and the air of who signed the verdict in advance. Behind, Angélica remains standing, a pale witness. In the background, relatives are positioned like birds of prey waiting for the first blood.
The old man observes us for a long time.
“Ivan,” he says. “You have dishonored this family’s name in a third-rate bar. Start talking. And pray that your reasons are better than your actions.”
Ivan stiffens even more. His face, which already looked like a topography of bruises and fury, closes up. “Uncle, I acted to protect this family’s honor. The honor my father taught us to defend.” He throws me a look of pure venom. “While my cousin, your heir, busies himself with his new pets.”
The old man doesn’t blink. Ivan feels encouraged.
