Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I glance at him over my shoulder. “You say that as if I can’t just snatch it back.”
“Sooner or later you will leave. I promise you that,” Yulia says all confidently with her irritating aristocratic tone.
But I don’t pay her any attention.
Sasha, however, doesn’t move as swiftly as Viktor and I, probably glaring at Yulia or something equally useless instead.
Viktor all but drags her out with him, whispering something to her in clipped words.
Soon after, the three of us are in front of my father’s office. However, his senior guard tells us he’s in his bedroom.
My parents haven’t shared a room for as long as I can remember.
Viktor and Sasha remain outside as I knock on the door and, without waiting for a reply, slip in.
The dark curtains are drawn, casting a pitch-black shadow on the vast room. The stench of illness reeks in the air, blending with the walls.
I hit the light switch, bathing the place in harsh yellow light.
There’s a cough, and then a moan of pain reaches me from the corner of the room.
The bed creaks under the extravagant weight lying on it, and a small voice whispers, “Kirill, is that you?”
Of course, even when he’s sick as fuck and battling death tooth and nail, he knows that I was on my way.
He planned it. Made it happen and gave me not one ounce of a way out. Yes, I could’ve forced my men to go back and insisted on staying in Russia, but then I wouldn’t be able to get my revenge on this man.
I stroll to his bedside, one hand in my pants pocket and the other hanging nonchalantly at my side.
My father has always been larger than life, so to see him as a shadow of his former self is weird. Is this really the great Roman Morozov?
His face is gaunt, and he’s lost weight, even though he’s still large as fuck. His eyes have sunken into dark sockets that barely contain them anymore.
Lips blue, skin pasty, he looks like the real-life personification of death.
His weak hand is holding on to the oxygen mask as he stares at me. For the first time, it looks like he actually sees his son, not the heir he spent years molding into whatever he saw fit.
The heir he beat, put in solitary confinement, and forbade any contact with the outside world for weeks.
The heir he made sure is only seen as competition by his own siblings and a target to be eliminated.
“How far the mighty has fallen.” I shake my head, tsking.
“You’re here,” he says in a weak voice that’s barely audible.
“You made sure of it, no?” My lips tilt in a smirk. “I probably should be thankful since you gave me a front-row seat to see you looking this way.”
“Son…you’ll be the leader now. You can’t…can’t let Konstantin take it…that oaf is…is…”
“Just like you?”
“No. You are like me… When I look at you, I see a younger version of me, son.”
“Lies.” My voice hardens.
“You are, Kirill. You’re a true Morozov. This…this ambition…this need for more and more…the not being satisfied with whatever you accomplish is in your blood. Our blood.”
“Stop it.” I lean over, and he just smiles.
“You, too, are plagued with the need to have everything you can’t see…go bigger…do more and more…and have everything. But nothing is enough… No one is enough…”
“I said. Stop it.”
“Just like me.” He breaks into a fit of coughs, and blood splashes my glasses.
He tries to put the mask on again, but it falls on his chin. He’s so weak that he can’t even move his hands properly.
I grab it for him, staring at him through the red droplets of blood on my glasses. “You killed my men, Father. The very men who followed me and trusted me and had blind loyalty to me are dead because you are my father, and I am a Morozov. You succeeded in bringing me back, but that’s your last mistake. Yes, I will lead our name, but I’ll destroy everything you made all these years. I give you my fucking word.”
He coughs and splutters, a dying man’s breath ripping out of him in a haunting melody.
I don’t look away, don’t even blink as I watch through the red. I stand there as my father spits his last breath, all while holding the mask out of his reach.
When his irises stare at nothing, I snap the mask on his grotesque face and clean the blood off my glasses with his sheet.
When I slide them up my nose again, the world is much clearer and cleaner from the loss of another miserable soul.
Now. It’s time for my reign.
I won’t stop as a higher-up in the Bratva. Sooner or later, I’ll have the whole fucking thing.
He was right about one thing, my father. I will eat the world for breakfast and that still won’t be enough.