Page 166 of Violent Possession

I leave the bathroom dressed in the first sweatshirt I find, covered in old stains. Alexei would hate it if he saw it. He likes clothes that command respect, that intimidate without needing words. I’m the opposite: I like to be underestimated. I like to see them relax before they realize that, beneath the apathy, something is lurking.

I sit at the table on the indoor balcony, light a cigarette.

What’s left for me, now, is to wait. To wait for a phone call, a coded message, any sign that he’s still alive. But waiting is not in my nature. I need to act, even if it’s just to feel that I’m not merely a spectator in my own life.

I pick up the phone that Alexei left me. I take a deep breath, type a short message, because everything I have to offer fits into three words.

Come back home.

Simple, direct, pathetic in its vulnerability. But I send it anyway, because it’s the only move I have left.

After sending it, I feel my body relax strangely.

What could Alexei be facing, at this very moment? What would I do if I never saw him walk through that door again, with that blasé way of his, as if he carries the world on his shoulders and still has room to despise the gravity of small things?

While I wait, I do the only other thing you can do when you’re waiting for someone to come back from a war: I prepare the victory feast. I order food with the card he left me. Not just for me. Champagne, meat that rich people eat, healthy things, in case Alexei is one of those types. And the best Thai food in the city.

Because if he comes back, we’re going to celebrate. And I hope he comes back hungry.

ALEXEI

The Malakov mansion is as inevitable and deceptively aseptic as a luxury hospital. I see it even before getting out of the car: the iron gates, the surveillance cameras hidden in lion sculptures, the cobblestone path that seems to spit you directly onto the steps of the main hall.

The last renovation was a decade ago, yet to this day the smell of fresh cement refuses to die under the layer of lemon essence and cleaning products that permeates the halls.

Today, however, the house is different. The silence is obtuse, tense, inhabited by too many presences. The main hall—with its white marble staircase, ridiculously large crystal chandelier, and French tapestry showing gods slaughtering humans—is crowded with relatives. Malakovs of all shades and subgenres, arranged in small swarms that only gather to bite harder.

I recognize every one of them. I feel the weight of their stares. Second uncles with hands clenched around glasses of vodka, wives chattering about art exhibitions in a hysterical tone, teenage cousins with the fever of newly discovered power. They are here because something big is about to happen, andMalakovs can feel these things in the air. The new thing is that, this time,Iam the epicenter.

Angélica is always the first. She crosses the room in a deep blue silk dress hugging her slender body, with her makeup perfect, and her gaze escaping all symmetry.

“Alexei,” she whispers, and that’s how I know she’s desperate. She only greets me by name—and not a diminutive—when she fears we’re all going to die before dinner.

She stops in front of me, and her eyes examine my face, fixing on the bruises. Her hand hovers between us but hesitates midway. In the end, she touches her fingers to my jaw so gently I barely feel it. “Your face… did Ivan do this? It’s worse than I thought.”

I don’t pull back, but I don’t offer comfort either. “It was a difference of opinion,” I say.

She retracts her hand.

“Your father… he hasn’t left his office since he heard the news. He broke a glass.”

That, in my father’s language, is the equivalent of a declaration of war. “Is he alone?”

“He doesn’t want to see anyone,” she replies, adjusting a lock of hair that isn’t out of place. “He just said… for you all to wait.” The plea in her eyes is clear. “He spoke with Ivan this morning on the phone. He’s…distraught. Complained about your… protégé. About the fight.”

“Let him,” I say. “The truth carries more weight than a first impression.”

“To your father, the first impressionisthe truth,” she retorts. “Be careful.Please.”

Before I can answer, the sound of the front door opening again silences what was left of the whispers.

Ivan enters. His face is a map of swellings, his nose crooked. He stops at the door, his gaze sweeping the hall, daring anyoneto comment on his appearance. He sees us with a toxic mix of hatred and sadness. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks past us, limping.

Angélica adjusts the pearl brooch on her dress in a nervous tic.

“He’s going to blame you for everything,” she whispers.

“Let him. It’s the other one I’m worried about.”