He still has control over me, in a way, mostly through my mother. She is in that house, and whenever I refuse to jump at his command, it always ends the same way, with a threat to kill her.
At this point she is half dead already, so he might as well finish it.
I am a heartless motherfucker, but I still pity her, which is why I do the jobs when he asks.
She was never a mother to me, so I don’t feel anything beyond a trace of pity, if even that.
I am supposed to love her because she gave birth to me?
Funny, that, because for most of my life, I wished she hadn’t. I wished I had never existed at all, especially not with that cunt of a father.
She knew what was happening in that house. Again, I don’t blame her, what could she have done?
But at the time, the child in me wanted more. I wanted her to at least pretend she cared about her own son, to try to do something, anything. That was how my mind worked back then, frightened and small, wishing for the safety of a parent who never materialised.
Either way, she gave birth to me, and that is the full extent of it.
She was lost to drugs long before she became pregnant. My father made sure she stayed clean while she carried me, he wanted an heir.
After I was born, she never once held me.
I was raised by nannies and then sent to Britain for a boarding nursery soon after.
Every interaction I have ever had with her has been brief, but it was enough. I could see the hatred in her eyes, the disgust, and I understand it. I am part of the man she was forced to marry, the fucker who ruined her life.
Her own father sold her to him, and knowing the cunt my sperm donor is, I can only imagine the hell she was made to live through.
I pity her for that. I really do. But I can’t shake the anger either, because she never tried. She never even attempted to escape. I am not asking that she should have taken me with her, only that she might have saved herself.
I know for a fact she never ran, never did anything more than disappear into drugs, and that, to me, is the most fucked up way of surviving.
Because she is not really living.
She has been high for most of her life, moving through the world as though wrapped in fog.
I have to escape them both and never set foot in that damn country again. I have no business in Russia. They are not my family. Isaak is the future Pakhan, and I am glad for it.
I am not made to rule. I am too volatile, too unpredictable, and too fucked in the head to sit at the top and pretend to be diplomatic.
I despise that family and that country, and if it were not for Kira, my mother, I would have severed every connection by now.
Even then, I know my sneaky father would find a way to blackmail me regardless. Until he is dead, he will never let go of me.
Perhaps I should simply kill him already.
I am working on it, but it’s not easy. Isaak’s father, the current Pakhan, is just as sick as his younger brother, and he would never allow me to touch his precious cunt of a sibling.
It is all a mess.
For the most part, he leaves me alone now. Still, every so often, my father manages to push through a request.
A hit, or two.
I look back at the house once more, at the darkened windows concealing my entire world inside. It only strengthens my resolve to get rid of my father for good.
Because if he so much as sniffs around my girl, if he ever tries to touch her just to prove he can…
I stop the thought before it finishes forming. I am already too close to snapping.
