Igor was twenty years old when he killed his first man. He’d looked the traitor in the face before blowing his head clean off.
It was the only time Igor could remember Olaf looking at him with anything resembling pride.
After disposing of the body, Igor had showered and puked in the tub. Then he got stinking drunk, puked again, and then passed out. As the sun had risen and shone through the open curtains, causing Igor to wake and wince, he realized he couldn’t stay soft if he had any hope of surviving in his father’s world. He packed up his viola, put on a custom-made suit, and became his father’s successor.
He hated every moment of it. The meetings, the petty squabbles, the shifty eyes everyone gave everyone else. He constantly had to watch his back. Sasha had volunteered to watch it for him.
“You don’t want into this life,” Igor protested. “Trust me.”
“We’re friends. Best friends. If it weren’t for you…” he trailed off. “I can help you.”
“How?”
With Sasha’s aid, Igor had gone from scrawny and soft, to cut and lethal. They practiced schooling their features, knowing there would be a time when they couldn’t react, no matter what terrible things they’d see. They caroused and drank, seduced women, indulged like men who knew life was fleeting. Sasha taught Igor how to live and planted the idea that Igor should overthrow his father—sooner rather than later.
“Not the time,” Igor always said.
“Well, when?” Sasha demanded. “We’re ready to follow you.”
“I know. Just—I know.” He wasn’t ready. To end Olaf’s reign, his son would have to kill him. There would be no going back, no pretending he wasn’t already damned to the devil. Somehow, he could rationalize the embezzling, the laundering, the murders of traitors and opponents. But to contemplate patricide, and then plan it and execute it… He was familiar with Shakespeare’s tragedies.
Sasha sighed but let it go. Igor never did anything until he was good and ready. He’d take Sasha’s advice into consideration but make his own choice.
The years of tenuous prosperity continued. Igor recognized the changing world and knew something had to be done. He wanted to expand into different sectors, focus on utilizing technology instead of city contracts. Olaf wouldn’t hear of it. Steadfast in his convictions, he continued to run things as he always had.
It was then that Igor realized his father had no vision. If they wanted to remain powerful, they would have to change the way they operated. So Igor was stuck in a world he didn’t want to be in, all the while trying to figure out how to change it without resorting to more violence.
He continued to live in limbo, but it was only recently that he had begun to feel like he’d been shoved into a pressure cooker. The lid was ready to blow. Meeting Mary at the Russian bathhouse had been like releasing the steam valve. He instantly felt soothed, the tension inside of him easing. Though she was young in age, she carried herself like a woman who knew her identity. She had no tolerance for bullshit. She was attractive and her assets were clearly presented, but she didn’t flaunt—nor did she hide.
And she was completely resistant to him. They spoke and laughed and engaged and even though they had a tacit agreement to meet every Saturday at the same time, she never accepted more from him. Not a ride home nor his invitations to dinner. He couldn’t figure her out. A lesser man would’ve been annoyed and given up, but he enjoyed the intellectual chase. Igor wanted her, originally for her body. Now, he wanted her because she soothed the hatred and violence burning him up from the inside.
It had been a month since they’d met, and he was no closer to wearing her down. “Why won’t you go out to dinner with me?” he finally asked as they walked out of the bathhouse.
She wrapped a plaid scarf around her neck before burrowing into her thick bubble coat. It was only forty degrees, and she looked dressed for winter in Siberia. “Because.”
“That’s not an answer,” he growled.
She stared at him with guileless blue eyes. “Truth?”
“Please. I can handle it.”
“I don’t have time for distractions.” When he was about to scoff at her excuse, she interrupted, “Seriously. I really don’t have time for distractions—and you’d be the biggest distraction ever.”
“What’s taking up all of your time? College?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“No.”
“Personal.”
She paused. “Yes.” Mary didn’t say more about it. “Will you please take my word for it? I do like you, Igor. If things were different, I’d go to dinner with you. I’d go to a lot of dinners with you.” When she admitted the truth, she stared him in the eye.
His hands reached out to gently grasp her arms and pull her towards him.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, her gloved hands coming up to rest on his chest.
He gave her the chance to pull away, but when she didn’t and looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, he dipped his head and kissed her. Igor didn’t hold back—he wanted this woman, in a way he had never wanted anything. Instead of taking what he wanted, he gave. Gave her everything that he was. And before he knew it, she was kissing him back, holding onto him for dear life.
Part of him knew he shouldn’t be kissing Mary in front of the Russian bathhouse. Anyone could see and tell Olaf what his son was up to.
With great resolve, he lifted his mouth from hers. Her eyes remained closed, her lips pouty and rosy from his kiss. He wanted nothing more than to bury his hands in her hair and pull her to him again and lose himself in her.
“Have dinner with me,” he urged.
She slowly opened her eyes. They were sad and solemn. “No.”