The Russian Unleashed
Page 9
He nods. “They call you the Silencer, I believe.”
A slow grin plays on my lips.
He holds his glass up to me. “I trust a man who can take down any opponent he faces but keeps it in the ring.”
I nod and take another drink before telling him, “While I may be undecided about my career, there is one thing I am certain of.”
Grandfather leans forward in interest. “What’s that?”
“Tatianna.”
He nods. “Ah…your friend Titov’s sister.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know of her?”
“I told you, Anton. I know everything about you.”
I have to assume that also means he knows about my popularity in the dungeons of Moscow. I smile, taking another sip of my drink. “I am going to marry her.”
Instead of bringing up my young age, he asks me why as if he is truly interested in hearing my answer.
Leaning forward with my elbows resting on my knees. I meet his frank question with an equally frank answer. “Tatianna is my soulmate. My future is with her.”
“Those are strong words, Anton.”
I lean back when I answer, “It’s the truth.”
He nods. “If that is how you feel, there’s no reason to wait.”
I can’t hide my surprise.
“It was no different with me,” he explains. “I knew our souls were matched when I met Irina.”
I smile, suddenly imagining my stoic grandfather as a punk kid trying to make a move on my future grandmother.
“When you both feel it in the marrow of your bones, you know it is a love you can trust.” He glances at the portrait of his deceased wife and says in a wistful voice, “You will need someone devoted to you in the years ahead.”
He looks back at me with profound sadness, and I suddenly realize he is still mourning her death after all these years.
I’m moved by his open grief. I know that my grandmother died when I was a young boy. I never heard the details about her death. However, my grandfather became a recluse after she passed.
He finishes his cognac, then tells me, “When you propose to Tatianna, know you will have my blessing.”
I look at him suspiciously. “Did you have her followed, too?”
“Naturally,” he states without shame. “She comes from a good, hardworking family, just like your mother.”
I can’t explain it, but hearing him compliment my choice in a wife touches my heart and I am honored by it.
My grandfather stands up abruptly. “Shall we join the others?”
Instead of the study, he leads me to the formal dining room. It is ostentatiously decorated with gold accents, impressive chandeliers, a marble fireplace, and priceless paintings on the walls. The elaborate table setting matches the room’s splendor.
One of the servants leads my family in.
By the flushed face of my father, I can tell he’s still seething. “What’s the meaning of keeping us waiting?”
Grandfather ignores him and takes my mother’s hand to kiss it. “You have raised an exceptional son.”
My mother smiles, glances at me, and then looks at her four other boys. “They are all exceptional in their own right. Thank you for your kind words.”
My grandfather pulls out the chair next to the head of the table and tells her, “Please sit.”
While my mother takes a seat, my father walks to the chair on the opposite side of the table.
“You will sit there,” my grandfather informs him, pointing to a middle seat.
My father’s eyes narrow and he looks as if he’s about to protest, but the moment my grandfather locks eyes with him, my father bows his head and moves down without a word.
“Anton, you will sit here,” Grandfather tells me, indicating the seat beside him.
He is playing quite the power game with my father, and I wonder at the reason behind it.
“Please, sit,” Grandfather tells my brothers.
As they all sit, I glance at my mother with a sheepish grin on my face. I am enjoying the change in dynamics.
Grandfather takes his seat at the head of the table and tells us, “I have asked my servants to prepare a lavish meal for you tonight.”
“What is the occasion, Grandfather?” my brother Vlad asks, hoping to curry favor with him.
“I want to make a toast.”
The servants quickly pass out shots of vodka to each member of the family, including Pavel.
Grandfather stops my younger brother when he goes to pick up the glass. “Wait.” He turns to my mother and asks, “I assume it’s all right if he toasts with us?”
“Of course, it is,” my father states. “He’s Russian!”
My grandfather doesn’t even turn his head in my father’s direction and continues, “I know he is still young.”
Mamulya glances at Pavel and then smiles at my grandfather. “Vladimir and I both agree there is no harm in one shot for this special occasion.”
With permission given, Pavel immediately grabs his glass and grins at his brothers.
My father huffs, obviously unhappy at being ignored by my grandfather.
Grandfather stands and raises his glass to us all. “Here’s to the Durov family line. May it continue to be a shining beacon to the rest of the world far into the future.”
I toss my glass back and take in the fine vodka, chuckling when I hear my younger brother coughing.
“Amateur,” my brother Andrev scoffs.
As soon as my grandfather sits, the servants bring out the starter, giving each of us a plate of the finest Beluga caviar with blinis on the side.
I have never tasted it before, and I am excited to try it. Before I have a chance, I hear sounds of pleasure as my brothers take their first bite.
I decide to taste a spoonful on its own first, wanting to fully appreciate its unique flavor. The large eggs break on my tongue, melting like butter, as I savor the multiple notes of the sea. It is truly a decadent dish and I am grateful for the opportunity to indulge in it.
The first dish is served—a soup called Botvinya. The bowl is filled with broth and accompanied by two side dishes, one of poached salmon and the other ice. It is a labor-intensive dish and a rare treat.
My mother enjoys the challenge of the dish and, if I’m honest, hers tastes far better. Still, it is a fine soup and all of us boys eat it with gusto.
Once our plates have been cleared, the second course is served. Instead of one dish, however, they bring out several. An army of servants fills the table with a variety of impressive dishes—large Kamchatka crab, an artfully molded kholodets, an oven-cooked suckling pig, and a magnificent centerpiece of sturgeon cooked whole and beautifully decorated with vegetables and sauces.
This is a meal fit for a tsar!
My brothers talk excitedly as one of the servants serves up the first plate and takes it to my grandfather. He surprises us all when he insists that I be served first.
The entire room quiets as the servant places it in front of me.
Unused to such attention, I muttered a humble, “Thank you, Grandfather.”
I glance at my mother.
Instead of an expression of anger or shock that I see on the faces of my father and brothers, Mamulya looks at me with pride.
It fills me with confidence as I wait for the others to be served.
As we eat in silence, I can feel the simmering anger of my father, but it only serves to make my appetite greater. I am determined to enjoy every culinary masterpiece on this table.
When my grandfather turns to ask my mother a question, I hear the clank of a fork dropping onto a plate.
I look up to see my father staring hard at the ring on my finger.
“You gave it to him?” he roars, glaring at his father.
My grandfather tilts his head. “Would you prefer I give it to your sister, Vladimir?”
My father doesn’t answer, grumbling to himself as he picks up his fork and begins stabbing at his meat.
“You are a spiteful man,” my father snarls, shoving a piece of fish into his mouth.
“And you are still an unrefined boy.”
Grandfather’s words hang in the air. None of us moves as we wait for our father to explode with rage.
His face turns bright red, and the veins pulse on his forehead and neck as his anger builds.
I notice my mother quietly put down her utensils and look at her husband in concern.
“There is no reason to pout, Vladimir. You have five healthy sons,” my grandfather states, taking an unhurried bite of his kholodets.
“And you’ve always compared me to my brother’s ghost,” my father hisses, looking down at his plate.
“Untrue. I have been fair with you, judging you solely by your actions.”
“Liar!” my father shouts, then suddenly cowers as he looks down at his plate in shame.
None of us knows what to make of my father’s strange outburst, but I slide my hand under the table and play with the ring on my finger, suspecting it has everything to do with it.
“Rather than ruin this auspicious occasion, act like the leader of your household and allow your family to enjoy this fine meal.”
My father stares at me with a hatred so deep, I am unprepared for the intensity of it.
Grandfather puts his hand on my shoulder as his gaze travels from me to my four brothers. “The future of the Durov legacy is here in this room.”
He zeros in on my father. “I expect you to guide all of your sons well, my son.” He picks up a goblet and takes a sip before adding, “If I learn differently, there will be consequences.”
With that unspoken threat, I feel my father’s palpable glare lifts from me. He knows that Grandfather is a powerful man and does not make idle threats—even against his own kin.
My father looks him in the eye. “My sons are in good hands, Father. Have you not heard? Anton is well known for his sadistic tendencies.” He snorts. “Many say he takes after me.”
Bile rises in my throat when I hear my father compare me to him, and then I hear snickers from my brothers.
This is my father’s futile attempt to humiliate and discredit me. He is unaware that my grandfather already knows about my kinky bent.
“They would be wrong, Vladimir,” my grandfather states quietly, taking another sip from his goblet. “He is nothing like you.”
That simple statement sends chills down my spine. To be accepted fully for who I am, and then to be defended by a man I admire? It affects me in such a fundamental way, I am unprepared for it.
It’s surreal to sit here and feel like the chosen one when all I have ever known is humiliation and pain.
I bend a huge leg off the Kamchatka crab and appreciate the loud sound as it breaks. Pulling out the meat, I use the hand with the ring to dip it in the butter and look at my father as I eat it.
As I enjoy the rest of the extravagant meal, I feel an untapped power surging inside me. I am no longer my father’s whipping boy.
I am a man of intelligence, strength, and passion.
Watch out, world. Anton Durov is coming for you…
The next day, I went to a popular tattoo shop to get a large tattoo of the family crest’s dragon on my left shoulder. I wanted its fierce mouth to face toward my heart so it could continually breathe its truth into me.
However, I made a slight but significant change.
I insisted the artist ink the dragon a dark red. Remembering what my grandfather said about the meaning of the color, I wanted my dragon to represent strength, not sacrifice.
A true artist, he tattooed freehand, perfectly capturing the fierceness of the dragon while maintaining the feel of its majestic power. Hours later, after he finished, I stood up and looked in the mirror. Staring at my reflection, I understood my life was starting down a radically different path, and I couldn’t wait to begin the journey.
My tattoo has been a blessing and a curse since.
In the beginning, I relied on the fierce passion of the Durov lineage and was proud that I share the same blood as my ancestors. The dragon made me courageous and strong.
However, embracing my family heritage came at a high cost—higher than I was willing to pay.
Now, whenever I look at the tattoo, I see blood. What a fool I was to think that by changing the color of the dragon, I could escape my fate.
True leadership requires great sacrifice.
Russian Roulette
I stare at the mirror, finding peace in Tatianna’s blue eyes. She remains my anchor even though she is gone from me.
“I’m going to visit my mother’s parents today,” I inform her as I shave. “I need to be with people who knew and loved her as much as I did.”
I see her look of concern and smile at her.
“I know, I know…they disowned our entire family, but they must be suffering, Tatianna. Not only from her loss, but from the guilt of their actions. I hope to bring them some peace and share our grief together.”
I stop shaving my head for a moment and confess to her, “I need that. I need to grieve with my grandparents.”
She nods, but she still looks worried.
“It will bring them comfort to know that Mamulya always talked well of them and that she never stopped loving them despite their silence.”
She smiles in understanding.
“I also want my grandparents to know my father suffered in death. It might bring them some sense of justice.”
The worried look returns in her eyes.
I laugh. “What could go wrong?”
Despite my bravado, when I arrive at my grandparents’ house, I am exceedingly nervous. I hope they can look past my resemblance to my father and see that their daughter lives within me.
Because my grandparents are complete strangers, I’ve done a little research on them before coming. I reach for the gifts I brought. I feel confident that what I have chosen will be appreciated. I was careful not to spend too much for fear of making them uncomfortable, while still spending enough to express my intention toward them.
I’m positive Mamulya would approve.
I chuckle to myself when I hesitate to knock on the door. I have never felt this anxious before. More than anything, I long to meet my grandmother in person. I’m certain I will see a spark of Mamulya in her.
After knocking, I stand and listen to my grandfather complain as he comes to answer the door. I smirk when I hear him say, “It better not be those kids again…”
Standing a little straighter, I wait as the door swings open.
The moment my grandfather sees me, his face crinkles into a scowl.
I understand it. I take after my father.
Transferring the packages to one arm, I hold out my hand to him. “Hello, I’m Anton, your daughter’s son—”
“I know who you are…” he spits. “You’re the devil’s spawn.”
I stand there in shock, not knowing what to say or how to react.
I realize now that this was my greatest fear.
I fight through it and tell him, “My mother—”
“Is dead.”
My mouth goes dry. Hearing him say it out loud cuts me like a knife.
“I warned her not to get involved with your father. I always knew it would end this way, but would she listen?”
“I’m devastated by her death,” I choke out.
He snarls. “Just looking at you makes me sick.”
From back in the house, I hear a woman’s voice and know it must be my grandmother because her voice reminds me of Mamulya’s.
“Michail, is everything okay?”
He turns his head and calls out, “Yes, my love. This doesn’t concern you.” He then looks back at me and glares. In a low, ominous tone, he tells me, “Don’t ever come here again. Your father is a monster and I can smell the Durov taint on you.”
After he slams the d
oor in my face, I stand there, stunned, unable to move.
His rejection hits me hard as a tidal wave of sorrow crashes over me.
I came here to mourn my mother’s death with my grandparents. Instead, I feel as devastated as the day she died in my arms.
After several minutes, the sound of a crow cawing on a fence post nearby brings me back to reality.
I drop the gifts where I stand and turn to leave. Instead of anger, I feel an immense loss.
I miss you, Mamulya…
I take in a deep breath as I walk to the vehicle and get in without a word to Titov.
The entire drive back, I stare out the window, soaking in my grandfather’s words. He is not wrong. The taint of my father does flow in my veins.
No matter what I do in this life, I can never escape that fact.
Ice courses through my veins knowing that there is a risk I could spawn another monster—this is true for any of my brothers.
We could prevent history from repeating itself, but I know my brothers would never make that sacrifice. The need to procreate and live on through their children is greater than the knowledge that they could birth evil into the world.
I roll down the window and spit, rage boiling inside me.
My grandparents have every right to hate my father. He murdered their only daughter and they know it—even though the police report claimed she was killed during a break-in.
My father hired the assassin I have yet to find. But at least I know my father lies in the cold ground where he belongs.
I hope the flames of hell consume him for eternity.
Staring out the window, I swallow down the tightness in my throat. I blink back tears of rejection as I watch a family with two young children walking down the street together.
I make a vow to myself never to have kids. I refuse to be the one who passes on the genetics that created my father.
His cruelty and greed have utterly destroyed my world.
The mood in the car is somber on the long drive back, and I catch Titov looking at me with concern.
“I’m fine,” I snarl.
As we pull up to the mansion, I feel a pit in my stomach. I want nothing to do with this place.
I refuse to be defined by those who reject me.
“Igor, turn the car around. We’re heading back out.”