Page 12 of Violent Possession

Ivan’s voice is loaded with the same old arrogance. He walks in, stopping in front of my desk. Without Vasily by his side, he seems larger, more direct. There’s no one to pull his leash, only Vladimir, his shadow, who would never dare question him.

“I’m finalizing the terms of the agreement with Karpov,” I lie, shuffling some papers that have nothing to do with it.

Ivan lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Karpov called me. Did you know?”

He stares at me, waiting for an explanation. As if I owe him one.

“And?”

The fake smile vanishes. “He said the great Alexei Malakov is going to turn his business into anempire.” He leans in, resting his knuckles on the polished wood of my desk. “I thought it was strange, Lyosha,” he says, trying to invoke an intimacy he himself helped destroy. “You called Karpov’s business a ‘glorified dog fight’. Now you want to be the circus promoter?”

I remain silent, letting him lay out the line of reasoning that Vasily undoubtedly wove for him.

“Come on, I know you,” he continues, straightening up. There’s a genuine frustration in his voice. “You despise these people, Alexei.”

It’s the same expression he used to make at twelve when I’d explain the rules of a board game he didn’t understand, just before he flipped the table out of pure spite.

For an instant, I see the boy with whom I used to build pillow forts on our grandmother’s couch, before we became...this. Rivals orbiting the same black sun. A useless memory thatappears uninvited, a fragment of a past that no longer has any use.

I crush it before it can soften anything inside me.

Vasily, no doubt, spent hours whispering in his ear, painting my sudden interest as a secret. As abetrayal.

“While you were satisfied with a handshake and a cheap beer, I secured a majority stake in an asset that can recover everything we lost in Odessa. The old man sent me there to make sure the intelligent part of the deal was handled, and that’s what I did.”

Ivan’s aggression wavers. He runs a hand over his face in a tired gesture that doesn’t suit him. The frustration in his voice returns, but the sharp edge is gone, leaving something more complex than simple, banal hatred.

“Right. You worked your magic,” he says, more quietly. Then he pauses. “Listen.”

I wait. There’s a clumsy attempt to extend a bridge over the abyss we dug between us.

It’s a trap. I just wait for him to set it.

“There are people... saying you’re enjoying your new project a littletoo much,” he begins, vaguely. It’s obvious that “people” has a first and last name:Vasily Malakov.“Saying you’re making solo plays, acting like you own the board.” He studies me, and a crooked, condescending smile appears on his lips. “I say that’s bullshit. You don’t have the stomach to be king. You’re thebrain. You wouldn’t last five minutes out there without some muscle to protect you.Mymuscle.”

There it is.

“So stop this shit of hiding in here,” he says, the tone now sounding like an order disguised as advice. “Act like part of the family. Prove those people wrong. Come with me to the first fight. See the show, stand by my side. Show everyone you still know who’s in charge.”

It’s much simpler than I expected—a public test of loyalty? He expects me to show up and bend the knee?

Perhaps, for a moment, his offer was genuine. Perhaps there’s a part of Ivan that misses the old dynamic, the certainty of our past. But his genuineness is irrelevant. Trust is the first bullet you point at your own head. I don’t trust anyone’s goodwill, much less that of a man who hasVasilywhispering in his ear. Family is a treacherous word—people who know your weaknesses up close and hide them between the lines for the sole purpose of retrieving them later. To look out for one’s own gain is inherent in a wretched man.

“I’ll consider your proposal,” I lie.

To Ivan’s ear, my lack of resistance sounds like submission. It’s exactly what I want him to hear. A smirk of superiority spreads across his face, and he gives me two pats on the shoulder from across the desk. It triggers an impulse of physical repulsion.

“That’s it, Leshy. I’ll bring some real man’s beers instead of that black shit you drink.”

He turns, walking toward the door. Before opening it, he stops and calls over his shoulder, “Vladimir.”

Vladimir pushes himself off the wall to follow. It’s Ivan’s final punctuation, a reminder that real power—the power to break bones—lies with him.

Then he leaves, closing the door.

Ivan is making a fundamental mistake: he doesn’t see me as a rival. A rival inspires caution. He sees me as a docile pet, just being put back in its place.

And that is the last thing I am.