Page 169 of Violent Possession
The cousins, who until then were ruminating on the previous scandal, lean forward again, sniffing out the new dramatic turn. Even Ivan, who by nature only understands explosions, perceives the strategic move and arms himself, waiting for the next detonation.
“Do you remember Istanbul, Alexei?” Vasily stares at me with unblinking eyes. “Do you remember how your distrust cost the family dearly?”
It’s a low blow, and he knows it: no one in the room has forgotten that operation, because it was the most expensive event in our history. He doesn’t wait for an answer because he knows the memory bites. And even if I answered, it wouldn’t be the whole truth. On that trip, Vasily was the commander in the field, but the story was rewritten so many times in the post-mortem that today no one remembers what actually happened.
I, until recently, thoughtIremembered.
But what Seraphim said still echoes in my head.
“Since then,” he continues, “Alexei has become increasingly…standoffish. He hides his moves. He acts in the shadows, almost always without informing even his own team. I feared for his safety, for the safety of the family.”
Vasily pulls a tablet identical to mine from his jacket, with a matte black cover. He places it on the table, next to mine. “I also brought proof. I know that Alexei outsources operations to outside groups, mercenaries who no longer answer to the family. I know there are holes in his routine, nights when he disappears for hours, sometimes days, without informing anyone—not even his trusted security.” He pauses, feigning regret. “I was monitoring, because it is my duty as a brother. And because if something goes wrong, the responsibility falls on me and Ivan. Ivan understands this because we are both, deep down, soldiers of the same army.”
I didn’t know he had this level of monitoring. I underestimated Vasily’s reach—a reckless mistake. Angélica, behind me, already knows the script, but is still surprised by the quality of the performance. The old man listens with an increasingly heavy brow. Dimitri, in the background, records from the shadows. After this, he’ll spend the night writing reports for no one to read.
Vasily continues, now with the unctuous voice offering comfort, “Ivan’s man, the one Alexei refers to as a ‘traitor’, was actually helping me monitor the potential risks of Alexei’s own erratic behavior. He wasn’t a double agent; he was just a preventative measure, a safety net to prevent the past of Istanbul from repeating itself.” He turns to our father, seeking approval. “I did what any loyal son would do. I know that Alexei, among us, is the most brilliant. But he is also the most volatile.”
The room is divided. Many of my uncles and cousins exchange confused glances. To them, Vasily was always the most controlled, the least prone to outbursts. And now he presents himself as the guardian of the legacy, the only one capable of maintaining order in the face of my supposed unpredictability. What astonishes me most is that I see doubt sprouting even in the old man’s eyes. Ivan, for his part, feels rehabilitated: the role of victim fits him like a glove, and he doesn’t hesitate to put on an expression of absolute indignation. He stares at me, and all I see is contempt.
Vasily is winning. He took my tactic of laying my cards on the table and used it against me. He paints me as an out-of-control player who puts everything at risk at the most critical moments. And he does it without raising his voice, without losing his composure. It’s pretty to watch, if you like domestic tragedies.
Everyone looks at me, waiting for the next move. The old man leans his body forward, resting his bones on the oak desk.Angélica takes a step closer, as if she could catch me if I were to collapse right there. But it won’t be today.
I let out a humorless laugh. Vasily, the ever-unflappable, blinks. Contempt was not in his script.
“Outsourcing,” I say. “Do you really want to talk about outsourcing things, Vasily? About entrusting the family’s future to strangers?” Before he can answer, I turn to our father. “It’s true. I have been outsourcing operations. I have been acting in secret. Because the last time I trusted my family with a critical operation, the last time I put my plan and the lives of my men in my brother’s hands, was inOdessa.”
“THIS AGAIN?” my father roars, the sound the closest thing to youth he has left. “That story is dead and buried!”
“NO, IT’S NOT!” The sentence explodes from me, and I stand up, dragging the chair back with a violent sound. I slam my palm on the wooden desk. Angélica shrinks back, but her eyes still have that wretched glint of someone who has bet all their chips on me. “You WILL listen to me,” I demand. “The operation in Odessa didn’t fail because of a ‘mistake’ by Vasily, it failed because he hired a third party to ensure it failed, and then cleaned up the mess so well that no one ever found the loose ends.”
I step back from the table, take a deep breath, and recompose the theater of composure.
“You,” I say to Vasily, “know who I’m talking about. You know, because you paid dearly. An angel, wasn’t it?”
I see it. His smile—that step of evident superiority even when the rest of his face is neutral—withers. For the first time ever, he seems not to know where the next punch will come from.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The voice lacks its previous firmness. The sentence dances in the air, trying to grab onto some point of support, but finds none.
“You don’t? I can refresh your memory. The angel I’m talking about penetrated the cargo system three days before the operation. He arranged for all the containers to be visible to Turkish customs. He forged twelve official files for you, opened a bank account in Ivan Malakov’s name, and, when the time was right, he vanished. Beautiful execution. Incredible how you always outsource the dirty work only to burn the human files later, Vasily.”
He lets out a short, dry laugh, but unlike usual, it doesn’t echo; it dies right there, in his throat. A performance. “This is ridiculous. Now you’re delusional, Alexei. Fairy tales, conspiracies… Father, see what he’s come to. The pressure has broken his mind. He couldn’t bear the weight of his own mistakes, and now he’s inventing invisible enemies.”
It could be convincing if I hadn’t done my homework. “Invisible is what you’ve never been, Vasily.” I retrieve the tablet from the table, swipe to the next screen, and display the org chart: thirty-seven names, dates, cross-referenced transfers, mapped routes. “Here. One hundred and eighty thousand euros, transferred from your account in Lugano, passing through three intermediaries and landing directly in the front account of your executor. And the best part: the receipt is registered by biometrics.Yourbiometrics.”
The room falls silent, except for the sound of Ivan’s irregular breathing, which oscillates between anger and paralyzing panic. Vasily stares at the tablet, his smile dissolving, centimeter by centimeter.
“Any idiot can forge a statement, Alexei,” he risks another performance, but his voice doesn’t have the same polish. “You were always good with computers. A useful skill for a basement rat.” He turns to his father, his eyes pleading for support that, for the first time, doesn’t come. “He’s desperate. Istanbul ruinedhim, and now he wants to drag everyone down with him. It’s pathetic.”
“Pathetic is using your cousin’s name to cover your tracks. Or do you want to compare now who the real shame of the family is?” I pull the matte plastic card that Seraphim gave me on the rooftop from the inner pocket of my jacket. I place it on the oak desk, sliding it across the polished wood until it stops right in the center, between the three of us. “This, for example.”
Ivan leans in, his gaze alternating between the card and my face, as if he could, from context, guess the next lines of the script. Vasily, on the other hand, recognizes the object immediately. The color drains from his face.
“Ivan, look closely,” I say. “Do you recognize this signature?”
Ivan picks up the card. His eyes trace the line of black ink under the plastic film. I see confusion turn into recognition, and then into a growing horror. That hesitant M, the drawn-out A. The signature he only makes under pressure.
“This is mine,” he stammers, looking from me to Vasily. “But I never… I never opened any account at M.I. Trust.”
