Page 3 of Beneath the Light of the Moon
Crazy bastard,he thought, uncrossing his legs before standing and walking toward the inky panes of glass framing the last vestiges of night.
Mikko had chosen this plot of land for its views and ability to frame every sunset. It amazed him how dusk fell into night’s embrace. A reverent turning of the sky as the colors darkened—soft pinks and lavenders giving way to fathomless indigo until finally…black nothingness.
Earlier, before the article and talking with Cristiano, his mind had been mostly at peace while he browsed through upcoming meeting agendas and multi-million dollar properties he managed or leased. Romanov Real Estate was known for partnering with privately funded organizations predominantly focused in healthcare and technology. WELL USA and Tech7 being some of the most notorious. The properties he showed and managed ranged from industrial warehouses to empty plots of land with potential or posh high rise headquarters. Government was another sector they dabbled in. It was a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” mentality. The work was tedious, his sharp eyes unable to miss any details lest it cost him a future contract.
Or in tonight’s case, a rowdy tenant that made him want to pull his hair out. At this time of night, the day hung on him like a wetblanket, exhaustion marring the skin beneath his eyes. While he might be good at what he did, it didn’t make it any easier. Donning a charismatic persona could be draining. It was a piece of him that only came out when he wanted something.
And with his lifestyle, there wasn’t much left for him to yearn for. Anything he’d ever wanted had been available to him at his fingertips—perhaps some things came with more blood, sweat, andbullets,but regardless, they came to him.
He had luxurious cars, a wardrobe boasting designer names, and a house he’d explicitly designed himself. Cristiano had called him a control freak—still did, actually—but his discipline had lent itself to his wealth.
Well, that, and his dead father’s restless spirit.
Despite the abhorrent man being gone for nearly six years, Mikko found himself unable to escape the lessons Alek Romanov had so tediously bestowed upon him. Running a business was more than it seemed, and Alek had made sure Mikko knew that at a young age.
“There’s no other life for us—for youmoy syn,” Alek had gritted through crooked teeth, spittle threatening to land on Mikko’s young, tear stained face.“This is who we are, and the sooner you accept that, the better.”
Who we are.
It was an honorable thing to say, a supposed tender moment between father and son, but the blood staining Mikko’s hands at his father’s behest made sure those traumatic influences werenevermisconstrued. Alek had been a selfish man, ensuring his son had no other choice but to move in the direction he was told.
No matter what.
Mikko’s left hand twinged, an old and familiar ache blossoming there as he thought about the documents and necessary notes for tomorrow’s meeting with WELL USA and a new potential client whosold sneakers. A swath of land had come available near the riverfront, and it was prime real estate. It might be small, but with some tweaking and design, his soon-to-be clients would reap decadent rewards. When in doubt, alwaysbuild up.
And Mikko, well, he profited both in the eyes of his government—God rest his tax paying soul—and under the table. One thing Alek had been correct on was when you pretend for long enough, become who they want you to be for long enough, then people stop asking questions.
It appeared businesses were the same way.
Outwardly, Mikko and his “family owned” business were prestigious, offering the best experience along the upper west coast, but look closer and organized crime would rear its ugly head. Real estate and development were the perfect cover ups for money laundering.
“Necessary evils,”or whatever his father had convinced himself of to let him sleep at night.
It was a shame Mikko had begun soothing himself with the same bullshit devotions when the nightmares persisted. While his Russian ancestors were turning over in their frosted graves oceans away at his rejection of religion, he wasn’t below an occasional prayer.
Whoever said the past stayed dead had never experienced a short life with his father.
With tired eyes, Mikko loosened his tie and unbuttoned his cuffs before rolling them up. The glittering decanter across his sleek home office tempted him, the clear liquid inside the only solution yielding near immediate results, but he resisted. While he may be a questionable man, he tried to refrain from getting drunk on the job…most of the time.
Would tonight be one of those nights?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
His mother’s clock was always there to remind him time waspassing him by whether he wanted it to or not. His eyes watered from lack of blinking. Mikko scrubbed his face, shutting out the walls of his office momentarily. Cristiano had called his taste cold and calculating, lifeless, but Mikko disagreed. Every piece had a place, a reason for being there. When the rest of his life was in disarray and veering off the tracks, he could count on his sanctuary being neat and clean.
Wood grain was imprinted into the concrete, the formwork from when the house had been built a couple years ago a faded memory. Every element of the room had been accounted for, every niche serving a purpose. Mikko used those voids to display small art pieces he’d collected and to store books—the titles ranging anywhere from real estate how-tos to self-help books. The latter were courteous of Cristiano, and therefore, untouched by Mikko.
The insufferable bastard liked to think he had jokes,Mikko thought, a sardonic smile almost breaking through the weariness of his fatigue.
Plush rugs lined the concrete floor, the moody rust hue of them softening the utilitarian feel of his office. Leather and wood furniture were arranged artfully throughout, encouraging conversation. Though, if Mikko was being honest, no one ever stayed here long enough to engage in such activities with him.
From his vantage point, foam capped waves sloshed against one another below, the depth of them unfathomable as nighttime rendered them into something closer to a void than a body of water.
Expensive trinkets lined his desk, pens and paper there for his thoughts and scribbles. A lone plant occupied the corner of his desk—the only one he could keep alive. A small snake plant, a specimen he couldn’t kill even if he tried. And he had, his long stints away from his oceanside house promised droughts for the plant, yet itstillthrived.
If he was honest with himself, this office had the bones of a creative, albeit a stifled one. It was a physical representation of his life; thebeauty of art captivated him, but that piece of him had long since died. Now the only way for him to cope was through his blatant acts of control.
Like father, like son.
