I was wrong.
This guy just mentioned something about my dad and a debt. Kidnappers don’t talk debt, they talk ransom.
What could my dad ever owe criminals?
Fine, they looked like corporate men. But a bank wouldn’t kidnap over a loan, would they?
They had to be some kind of corporate criminals.
And that led me to a question too dreadful to even answer.
What does this mean for me?
God, he said, I belonged to someone?
What the hell does that mean?
Where does my life go from here?
Is this how I die?
Chapter Two
Viktor’s POV.
Sometimes I forgot what fresh air felt like in Manhattan. Other times, I remembered after I'd taken a short stroll: the sweet and sour mustiness that suspended in the atmosphere—somewhat chilling and not comfortable in the least. But tonight, I sensed an oddity while I paced to and fro in my home office.
I lit my Cuban cigar right before I took a quick glance at some of the people around me. About five of my men were present, standing at the far end of the room. I heard the shambles of shoes which followed a noisy tap that seemed as though someone was walking up the stairs.
Nonetheless, I walked over to the balcony and took a quick look around the estate. The labyrinth of shrubs was the first thing that caught my attention. I removed the cigar from my mouth and took a deep breath. The balcony evoked lots of memories that I thought I'd forgotten.
One of the most terrifying ones was watching my papa point a shotgun at Uncle Alberto’s head.
I froze for a minute when I saw it. Papa's eyes burned in reddish fury that I had never seen before.
“Please, brother. Don't do this. For the sake of the Bratva family, for the sake of our future, for the sake of your sweet Viktor, brother,” Uncle Alberto pleaded.
His eyes were a reservoir of tears that didn't fall.
Papa didn't flinch a muscle. Instead, he turned and saw me standing behind him with my eyes wide open. I was confused; the closest I had come to seeing a gun being shot was in a scene in Tom and Jerry. I was eight or nine.
“Look, Viktor,” Papa said while he stressed the R in his thick Russian accent, right before he turned his face to look at my dear uncle, who was finding it hard to breathe in his suit. “Today, you become a man, my boy. This is what we do to all those who betray the Bratva family.”
“Please, brother. On my life, I swear, I didn't mean to betray you. I was trying to protect you.”
Papa racked the gun and placed his index finger on the trigger. Uncle Alberto’s face was full of sweat, yet he stood composed, as though he had a sense of hope that he wouldn't die.
The first shot went straight through his forehead. He fell flat on the floor, lifeless, and my body jerked at the sound. I remember thinking how this was way different from what I watched in cartoons. The second shot went straight through Uncle’s chest, and the flowing blood thickened around his head and torso.
“Clean the pig’s body. You can either bury him or feed him to the dogs.”
There were only three men around Papa, and I stood in awe. He walked towards me and gave my hair a light brush.
“Listen, Viktor, once you notice a slight change in action from any of your friends or one of our men, take action. If you're not the first to pull the trigger, you might just end up dead.”
That was the only thing Papa told me before the men carried Uncle's body away from the balcony. I wondered what uncle did till this day. Although I remembered how, in that moment, I feared my papa, and I vowed not to get on his bad side. It was a shame for Papa to die the way he did. No matter how much I drew inspiration from him and utilized his infinite wisdom, it was never enough. The weight of being the absolute leader of the Bratva changed shapes often; I had to learn a lot on the job.
“Boss, he’s on his way,” Lyon informed, standing a few feet behind me, breaking me out of my thoughts.
