Page 12 of Ivory Oath

I knew what I was doing when I sent Viviana away. I made the choice with eyes wide open. I’ll do anything to protect Dante.

But protect him from what?

Viviana didn’t kill Trofim. Even if she did, Anatoly was right: we should have thrown her a party. Trofim was a monster. I regretted not killing him myself plenty of times over the years since I exiled him.

And sure, the Greeks will start banging their war drums the moment this second engagement with Helen even hints towards falling through, but if I’m the ruthless man my father says I am, then I can take them on.

But if I’m the ruthless, cold-blooded man my father says I am, then I wouldn’t want a family in the first place. That man could send Viviana away and never think of her again. That man wouldn’t spend hour after hour beating his frustration into a punching bag and crawling through the mud.

Dante thought I was going to protect him and his mom. Viviana thought I could be different if I wanted it badly enough.

As I stand in front of my father now, the question isn’t just which man am I—it’s which man do I want to be?

“You’re right. I will survive.” I smooth the rumpled collar of my father’s shirt down around his neck. Then I wrap my hand around his throat. “You, however, won’t.”

His eyes widen as I slam him back against the wall one last time, crushing his windpipe beneath my fingers.

“Maybe I would have exiled you the way I did Trofim, but you’ve made it clear that was a mistake.” He claws at my hand. My thumb is buried in his pulse point. I can feel each desperate pound of his racing heart. There won’t be many of them left. “I want to learn from my mistakes, as any good pakhan would.”

His lips quiver around a word he can’t find the oxygen for. Maybe it’s my name. Maybe it’s a plea.

It doesn’t matter.

His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor. I follow him, letting him lie sideways in the shattered glass of the picture frame that fell earlier.

Once his eyes flutter closed, I grab a shard of glass and feel the weight of it in my hands. I take stock of this moment, of exactly what I’m planning to do, what it means, what it will change.

Then I drive the glass into his throat.

6

VIVIANA

I hear the door to my room open, but any connection between my brain and my body has been severed. Or, if not severed, then shriveled up and dehydrated like the rest of me.

I know I should sit up and prepare myself for whatever horror Trofim has lined up for me now, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Unless it’s a glass of water dancing through the door, I don’t want to waste the energy.

“Viviana?” A deep voice sing-songs my name.

I’m hallucinating, I think. Or maybe I’m going crazy. Can dehydration make you hear voices? It’s the only reason I can think of why I would be hearing my father’s voice in my ear.

“Wake up and give your daddy a hug.”

My eyes snap open to find my father leaning over me.

I’m still hallucinating, but it’s worse than I thought. I’m hearing and seeing things.

When my father would be gone for work, he’d come to my room as soon as he got home. It was the only time he ever seemed excited to see me. He’d wake me up and give me a hug. Then present me with whatever trinket he bought for me on his trips.

I used to think it was sweet. Now, I know he just wanted to make sure I hadn’t gone anywhere.

“You’ve looked better.” The hallucination that looks remarkably like my father—wrinkles and gray hairs included—assesses me with a wince. I feel like a rotted carcass left to bake in the sun. I can only imagine what I must look like.

I try to talk and break into a coughing fit. Once I can manage words, they come out in a hoarse whisper. “Go away.”

“I thought you’d be excited about visitors at this point. Especially a visit from dear old Dad.” He lays a warm, rough hand on my elbow.

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