Page 118 of Violent Possession

I can’t go against Alexei.

Not when the only thing that makes me feel alive is him.

ALEXEI

The rain beats against the Maybach’s armored glass, warning me that the universe is aligned to sabotage everything I try to build.

I hate hospitals. They’re corridors that smell of formaldehyde, people on the brink of death, and a tense silence that fools no one. The visit is a proof of life for the rest of the family, and a reminder to myself that nothing, not even the body, is inviolable.

Ivan fucked everything up. His violence cost me a nocturnal marathon of calls and routine inspections, the kind of dirty work I perform without anyone knowing. I gave away absurd percentages, pulled money from funds Vasily couldn’t touch, and had to put mypersonal name—not a holding company’s, not a ghost’s—as collateral. When the paperwork reaches him, Vasily will see the amputation of his access to Titan and will understand, with no room for doubt, that the net has closed. But Vasily is not an idiot: he will smile, he will pretend he felt nothing. He will wait for me to drop my guard, just as I did with Ivan.

I’m on my third cigarette when my personal phone vibrates. The number on the screen is a Cold War signature: Angélica. The kind of woman who would never make a mistake for passion, but would always err for self-preservation. I open the message.

A single-view photo. An elegant corridor, a Persian rug, soft lighting. A figure at the far end, with his back to the camera.

Vasily. The cut of his suit is unmistakable, and no one else in that house would have the courage to wear dark brown shoes. He’s entering our father’s wing.

Looks like he’s finally shown his face.

For a phone that costs the GDP of a small country, your camera quality is deplorable. Did you even clean the lens?

sorry if I didn’t have time to adjust the ISO while your brother was talking shit about you.

Why the warning?

between a narcissist and a functional sociopath, I choose the one who keeps my bank balance stable.

and his taste in wines is offensive.

can you imagine not knowing the difference between a syrah and a shiraz? at least you know.

I read the replies and understand the layer of warning: Angélica isn’t my ally. She is an ally of her own comfort, her own future, and she only warns me because Vasily threatens both. But this is the best possible alliance.

I don’t expect loyalty from anyone who has nothing to lose. And while it lasts, she gets the job done.

Noted.

I delete the conversation. Vasily went to our father, and I can imagine why: to tell him about my “mistakes” and the supposed threat this represents to the dynasty by putting an informant on the payroll. He will paint a picture where I am careless.

The Maybach stops at St. Michael’s private entrance. My driver—an expert in not asking questions—opens the door, and the rain hits me. I dismiss the offered umbrella.

Two of my men are already in the lobby, wearing suits that don’t give away their function but make it clear they are not there to take orders from anyone except me. The security guard at the door hesitates, recognizes the surname on my ID, and grants passage without looking me in the eye.

The hospital lobby is polished marble, museum-like silence, and people moving too fast not to be contaminated by the pain of the place. I go up in the private elevator.

A nurse, brunette, tired, with a perfume too aggressive for the environment, makes a move to announce my arrival. I decline with a gesture. I don’t need an introduction.

Karpov’s room is well-furnished. He’s lying on an adjustable bed, surrounded by monitors, both legs in casts, and one arm immobilized by bandages. His face, once fat and red, now looks like a half-deflated balloon, and his eyes, lost in the brightness, take time to recognize me. I let the anxiety grow, let him feel the weight of my waiting, before saying anything.

He tries to get up, as if formality must be preserved even in humiliation. I smile sympathetically and point to the heart monitor. His heart rate goes up three beats.

“You don’t need to get up,” I say. “It’s all resolved.”

I sit in the armchair next to him, my gaze fixed on the digital display of the monitor. The silence weighs, and Iletit. Over his shoulder is the reflection of the rainy city on the glass.

It’s a kind of power to watch someone in silence until they beg to speak. I savor it.

“How are they treating you?” I ask, finally.