That night, Igor, with Sasha as his right hand, went to the docks to check the incoming shipment. It was light. Igor didn’t care why or how. Sasha and Igor took the man who tried to fleece them to an empty warehouse and tortured him for hours.
It was barely dawn when he made it back to his apartment. He was covered in blood—none of it his. After stripping in the foyer, Igor bagged up his soiled clothes and set them aside to be thrown out. Naked, he strolled to the liquor cart and poured himself a glass of vodka. It wasn’t the cheap stuff, nor was it the high end. Somewhere in between.
That’s how he felt himself.
The first time Igor had killed a man, he’d thrown up. He threw up every time since, but he soon learned that a woman—or several—helped him forget. After the women came the vodka. He drank himself into a drunken stupor and then vomited up vodka and bile.
Not even Sasha knew how he reconciled his actions.
He hated his father—for many reasons—and yet somehow, he couldn’t find a way to get out from under Olaf’s thumb. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Igor harbored secret hopes that one day his father would be proud of his son and heir.
He looked at the clock. He had a few hours to shower and look presentable before sitting aside his father at church. Every Sunday, father and son would attend mass, sit in their separate confessionals, and then they’d have lunch at a Russian restaurant around the corner.
Igor sat in the confessional every week and refused to say a word to the priest. After fifteen minutes of silence, Father Michael would give Igor ten Hail Marys and call it a day. Igor didn’t believe in confession, but he did believe in facades.
“You look like hell,” Olaf stated in way of greeting when they arrived on the steps of St. Nicholas Cathedral.
Igor raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and all he had in his system was coffee and vodka.
After confession, they walked to the tiny Russian restaurant that was just one of Olaf’s many money-laundering fronts. “The Drugovs are in town,” Olaf said after they were served their borscht.
“How nice.”
“They are bringing their daughter.”
Though his senses were sluggish, Igor’s warning bells went off. “Daughter,” he repeated flatly.
“You remember Katarina?”
“Da.”
“You will take her to the opera on Friday night.”
“Will I?” Igor asked quietly.
“The Drugovs are wealthy and powerful.”
“I’m aware,” Igor said.
“She’s beautiful.”
“There are plenty of beautiful women I could spend my time with,” Igor pointed out.
“But you will marry only one.”
And there it was. Olaf wanted to expand his empire—to do that he needed the Drugovs. His son wasn’t enough. Never would be.
The borscht turned bitter in his mouth, but he forced himself to keep eating as if Olaf hadn’t told him what his future looked like.
“Say something,” Olaf snapped.
“What would you have me say?” Igor asked in genuine curiosity. “You clearly think to move me like a piece on a chessboard.”
“You are my heir and successor. I’m thinking of my legacy.”
“Ah, yes, your precious legacy.”
“I could end you,” Olaf blustered.
“You could. But then who would run your empire?” He pushed back from the table and stood. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“So polite,” Olaf mocked. “Even when you wish to kill me. You are your mother’s son.”
Igor smiled and gave a scornful bow. “Thank you.”
Without looking back, Igor walked out on his father.
After walking out on his father, Igor called Sasha.
The two friends sat in one of their favorite bars, a small dive around the corner from the Russian bathhouse where they did business. It was dark, empty, and quiet. The bartender knew them and knew to ignore them.
“So are you going to marry her?” Sasha asked.
“I don’t know,” Igor admitted, swirling the clear liquid in his glass.
“What do you gain by marrying her?” Sasha prodded. “Versus what you lose by not.”
“Could I have a different life?” Igor wondered aloud. “Go somewhere far away and not be my father’s son?”
“Why do care so much about it? What hold does he have on you aside from blood?”
Igor didn’t answer and took a drink.
“There is another option,” Sasha said.
“No.”
Sasha shrugged.
“You would do it, wouldn’t you? If I said ‘yes’,” Igor pressed.
“I follow you—not him.”
Sasha’s unwavering loyalty humbled Igor to the core.
“I’ve met her before. She isn’t a complete stranger,” Igor admitted.
“And?”
“We were teenagers the last time we saw each other.”
“I’m waiting.”
Despite the situation, Igor smiled. “She took my virginity.”
“No shit,” Sasha said with a laugh.
Igor had been fifteen, quiet, and studious. Katarina, only a year older, was vibrant and gorgeous. She and her family had come to stay at the Dolinsky country home in Pennsylvania. One night, she’d snuck into his bedroom, draped her naked body on top of his, and turned him from boy to man. It had only taken about thirty seconds. She’d visited his room every night for two weeks until she and her parents had left.
“Damn, how did I not know about this?” Sasha asked.
“That was the summer that you—”
“Da. I remember,” Sasha interrupted.
They were silent a moment, both thinking about that summer for different reasons. Unable to help himself, Igor wondered how it would be between him and Katarina now, as adults.
He sighed. “I guess I’ll take her to the opera.”