Page 29 of Endless Obsession

My father’s mansion, on the outer edges of the city, is a sight. Dima Kariyev made a name for himself as a young man in Chicago, bringing over our family’s name and influence from Moscow and establishing the family Bratva here. He’s not the only Russian crime family in Chicago, but he’s risen to be one of the most influential, and one of the most feared.

But fear and respect are two different things. My father and my brothers are known to be vicious. Men who have very little in the way of codes that they abide by. And those rules, those personal codes, are what gain respect from other men in this world. The knowledge that even in violence, there can be honor.

My father is a violent man, but one without much honor. My existence is proof enough of that. Men in this world are often unfaithful to their wives, but demanding that one of their bastard children be raised with the family, by their wife, is unheard of.

His wife hates me. I don’t blame her for it.

I park my Mustang behind the row of other cars, all of them new and gleaming. Ani’s Lamborghini, Lev’s Rolls Royce, Niki’s Maserati. They have an appreciation for money, but not for style or heritage. My Mustang is a classic.

More than that, it’s a symbol of how little I want to do with my family. An all-American car, something with no ties to our lineage. Something that represents the world I’d rather be a part of, instead of the one I’m in.

Unsurprisingly, none of them have ever picked up on that. It’s a silent rebellion, which, to my mind, makes it that much better.

I’m a few minutes late, the best I could get away with under the circumstances. I walk through the large foyer, my shoes clicking against the marble floor, and continue all the way to the formal dining room. My father insists on holding family dinners here, even though the six of us barely take up a third of the long table.

Dima, my father, looks up as I enter, his face already creased with displeasure. His wife, Katya, is to his right, my brother, Lev sitting to his left. Ani and Niki are both sitting next to Lev, which means I’ll be forced to sit next to Katya, or further down the table, snubbing her. Treating her as less than my mother—which, of course, she isn’t. Not really.

This is intentional. I’m fully aware of it. I’m also not about to allow any of them to see how they get under my skin.

I walk around the table, nodding respectfully to my father before taking the seat next to Katya. She turns to me, her face covered thickly with makeup, and I lean in, giving her an air kiss on each cheek, as she prefers. I can smell the powdery, thick rose scent of her perfume and makeup, and it turns my stomach.

It reminds me of my childhood in this house, and none of that is pleasant.

“You’re late,” Dima growls. “We were waiting on you. You’ve kept not only your father and brothers waiting, but also your mother. What do you have to say about that?”

That my mother isn’t here. I wisely keep that thought to myself. “I apologize,” I say flatly, forcing it out. “There was traffic.”

“That can be planned for. Early is better than late. Better even than on time. Isn’t that right, Lev?” Dima turns to look at his oldest son, who nods firmly. I’m sure he was more than early to dinner. Eager to please my father, so he can keep his place at his side.

That’s the thing about having a family so vicious. Lev’s birthright is his inheritance—the influence, connections, and most of the wealth of the Kariyev family when our father passes. But my family only observes the rules when they suit. If Lev angered our father enough, if he gave any hint that he didn’t intend to continue on as Dima began, he could be removed easily enough. He could meet with an accident. And then it would be Ani’s turn to prove that he’s worthy of my father’s name and empire.

I often wonder if Niki is relieved that it would take a lot for that particular inheritance to work its way down to him. I know I am. I also know Niki would try to have me killed the moment that happened, just to make sure that I didn’t have the same idea.

Luckily for my brothers, I don’t want any part of this. I’m not interested in my family’s politics. And I have every intention of one day having enough money of my own that I won’t need any of that from them, either.

Enough that I’ll never need anything, from anyone.

The table is mostly quiet after that, until the first course is served—a mixed greens salad with a creamy dressing and a squash soup swirled with heavy cream. The food is the only tolerable part of these family dinners—my father employs an excellent cook. But it’s still not worth what I have to sit through, not when I could get equally good food on my own without the stomachache that will inevitably follow.

We’re halfway through the soup when Dima speaks again.

“I heard you questioned one of the men suspected of leaking the railyard location,” he says, looking directly at me. “Lev also says you killed him before he could give much information.”

Next to me, Katya flinches. “Dima, please,” she says calmly, but her mouth tightens at the edges. “Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?”

He ignores her. “Well?” he barks, setting down his spoon. One of the staff immediately springs into the room, clearing all of the plates, regardless of whether we’re still eating or not. When Dima is finished with a course, we’re all finished.

“I killed him when I was sure he had nothing left to tell us,” I return flatly. “As I explained to Lev, the promise of a clean death is a bargaining tool. If the other half of that bargain thinks that is a lie, they’ll no longer be forthcoming, and nothing they say can be trusted.”

Dima laughs at that, a deep, hearty sound, as the next course is set out for us. Steak—tender-looking filet—with sides of roasted potatoes and spiced corn. He cuts into his steak first, and I can see that it’s cooked black and blue, barely a step past raw. Very little turns my stomach, but in the present moment, something about watching my father slice through that still-soft meat makes the back of my throat burn with bile.

My appetite has fled, which is a shame. I like steak.

“You treat torture like an art,” he says, chuckling. “My violence mixed with your mother’s creative spirit, I think.” He looks genuinely amused by the thought. “It’s a means to an end, son. And I expect you to get that end. This is the second shipment of women we’ve lost. That’s money that has to be repaid to buyers, unless we find a suitable substitute for them. Even then, they often want at least partial compensation for their wait. Those connections are fragile, Ivan. Those men can go elsewhere for their flesh. I want them to come to me. And with every shipment we lose, frays that trust. It damages my other business, too. Do you understand?”

He jabs the knife towards me, cutting the air as he says it. I don’t flinch, but I can feel that squirming sensation in my stomach again. I’m not insensible to the pain that would be inflicted on me if he ever found out what I’m doing. The fact that I’m able to hide my fear of it doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.

I glance towards Katya, wondering if I’ll be able to read anything on her face. Surely, she, a woman, must feel something sitting here and listening to her husband discuss the sale of other women. Unwilling women, being sent off to their buyers to be used and abused as those men see fit.

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