Page 75 of Violent Possession

Now, he closes his eyes. His chest rises and falls irregularly, but I’ve grown accustomed to this rhythm.

Before all this, he never allowed me to see him sick. Not even vulnerable. Now he imposes the illness itself as a staging of his power over the narrative. There’s nothing dignified about it, and he makes it seem like there is. He pretends that every strand of hair stuck to his forehead, every crack in his voice, is a deliberate choice.

Excessive smoking, in fact, was a deliberate choice. It would carbonize his lungs sooner or later.

“I hear you’ve got a new fighting dog,” he says. “A cripple. From Ivan’s circuit.”

The wordcripplebarely comes out. There’s a subtext of revulsion, a judgment not just of the choice, but of who makes it. He’s never content to attack the object.

“He’s an investment, father. Not a dog,” I reply. “He has the potential to generate considerable profit.”

“You’ve always had a weakness for broken things, Alexei. Like your mother.”

Her mention, after so many years. Just to compare me to the woman he broke and discarded. A repetition of inherited weakness.

I force myself to respond. “Broken things are easier to remold in your own image.”

He smiles, or tries to. The muscle that controls the smile has already been partially overcome by medication, so the effect is grotesque, a grimace between mockery and pain.

“And Vasily? Does he approve of your new… broken toy?”

He knows. Of course, he knows. There is no rumor, disagreement, or lateral movement in this house that doesn’t reach this bedside first. He frames the question to demand that I admit, aloud, my dissent.

I don’t hesitate.

“Vasily sees the world linearly, father. He sees the money laundering routes you built twenty years ago. He maintains them, but doesn’t innovate them. I prefer to beproactive.”

His eyes gleam. Recognition, or excitement, I can’t distinguish. It’s in these moments that I remember who he was before the illness—a hunting animal, incapable of being satisfied with the kill, always wanting more, better, faster.

“The sponsors who finance Vasily’s front operations are men whose loyalty is tied to cash flow, not blood. Under a sports front, we could double the money with half the risk. That would eliminate fifty percent of the noisy layers; we would have twenty-five percent in net quota. If we optimize flow, there would be room to go up another ten percent without attracting attention.”

My father stares at me. He just breathes, and the wheezing of the respirator mixes with the silence of the room. That’s when he lets out a dry, guttural sound, which could be laughter or a cough. I can never tell.

“Good,” he whispers. “Prove it works.”

The only blessing I’ve asked for my entire life is permission to take the reins. The only one I’ve ever had.

The rest is irrelevant.

The bedroom door opens, this time without the hesitation of a nurse.

Ivan enters. He notices me and the man in the bed, trying to read the atmosphere. He’s late. As always.

“Uncle!” The word explodes too loudly for the ballast of tubes, probes, monitors, and silent death. It’s an attempt to regain affective hierarchy. He approaches the headboard, stooping for the dominant touch: a wide, somewhat brutal hand resting on my father’s shoulder. The gesture is less affectionate than possessive.

My father doesn’t react to the contact. He just twitches his eyelid—he certainly expected Ivan, the idiot, to come in late.

“How are you feeling?” Ivan says. He wiggles his thumb, massaging the old man’s diseased muscle, unaware that there’s nothing there to reanimate.

My father ignores the question. “Where is Vasily?”

Ivan straightens up. His smile becomes a halfway point: embarrassment and relief, as the focus shifts from him. “Vasilyis a coward. He just called, said he had a ‘last-minute unforeseen event’ with one of the containers at the Marseille dock.”

Vasily never has unforeseen events—he designs them, packages them, delivers them with a receipt and protocol.

“But he’ll fix it and come straight here. His word,” Ivan completes.

My father lets out another one of those guttural sounds. He knows the sons he raised. Then, he turns to Ivan, and the conversation shifts to tactics.