12
Lev
My father doesn’t summon people. He convenes them.
There’s a massive difference, and every man in that room knows it. A summons implies you have the option to refuse. A convening means you’re held in place before you walk through the door.
I know something is wrong before I reach the top of the stairs. Ruslan clocked it, too. He fell a half-step behind me on the way up, something he does when he thinks I’m walking into something he can’t quickly pull me out of.
The study is arranged differently. My father’s meetings usually put him behind the desk with everyone else in chairs pulled into a loose semicircle, similar to how a professor sets up a classroom. Tonight, the chairs are in a line, facing the desk.
His two senior advisors, Gennady and Aleksandr, sit on the right side. Frol is on the left, with his jacket buttoned and one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
My father doesn’t look at me when I walk in. That’s how I know he’s in on whatever this is.
He stands at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s still in a full suit despite the hour, something he only does to convey formality. The fire in the grate is going, something he only lights when he wants a room to feel intimate. Both at once means he couldn’t decide whether tonight was a reprimand or a lesson. In this family, it’s usually both.
“Sit,” he orders without turning around.
Every time he gives a command to the room before he’s even looked at who’s in it, I’m tempted to stay standing just to make him acknowledge me first. But I cross to the chair and sit. Tonight is not the night to pick that fight.
“We’ve been reviewing the operations calendar. There are gaps.”
He opens the folder on the desk. He is thorough. He is always thorough. I’ve missed check-ins with the Tverskaya distributors and issued a delayed report on the Petrov situation, which arrived six days late. Then there’s the matter of a territorial walk in the Zamoskvoretsky district that I assigned to a junior associate instead of handling, because I had somewhere else to be.
He reads each one without commentary. Just dates and facts, steady and without pause, and I sit straight and keep my hands on my thighs.
Gennady watches the middle distance. Aleksandr has found something fascinating in the grain of the floor. Neither of them is enjoying this, which means they understood what tonight was before they walked in. They were brought here to witness, not participate. The audience is the point.
Then, Frol speaks.
“I covered the Zamoskvoretsky walk.” He still hasn’t looked at me. His focus stays above my shoulder, aimed carefully at the far wall. “I also rescheduled the meeting with Karamazov’s people that Lev missed. Twice.”
“I wasn’t aware of the rescheduling,” I reply.
“Because you weren’t reachable.” He finally looks at me. There it is, the satisfaction he gets when he has finally been given the room to say what he’s been holding back. “I’ve been covering for you.”
“Then thank you.” I shrug. “I’ll return the favor sometime.”
He doesn’t bother hiding his offense. Frol has always worn his feelings the same way he wears everything else: openly, because nobody in this family has ever asked him to hide them. He’s always been the one who got to exist in plain sight. First son. Rightful heir. The face the organization puts forward. He was handed everything that came with that position before he was old enough to do anything with it, and he has spent thirty-three years doing nothing to question it.
Gennady clears his throat. Aleksandr looks at the far wall. Neither is comfortable.
My father sits and folds his hands on top of the folder. “The question I’m asking is what’s demanded your attention to the degree that your work has slipped.”
“I had three bullets pulled out of me six weeks ago.”
“Seven weeks ago. And you were operational within two.” He sets the folder aside. “So that’s not the answer I’m looking for.”
“I’ve had personal matters to manage. They’re resolved. It won’t be an issue going forward.”
“Personal matters.” He repeats it without inflection and hikes an eyebrow. “Your brother doesn’t have personal matters that interfere with this organization.”
To his credit, Frol doesn’t react. He just sits there and lets our father hold him up as the standard, which is the only thing he’s ever been asked to do, and the thing I’ve watched him do my entire life.
“Frol and I have different roles,” I point out. “We always have.”
My father’s eyes stay on my face. “Meaning?”
