Page 15 of Trapping His Darling

“Viktor Petrov, are you prepared to ascend to adulthood?” My father’s commanding voice echoed through the chamber, and his soldiers stood with rigid precision, akin to obedient automatons, all awaiting my response.

I fought to steady my rapid breath, attempting to quell the turmoil in my stomach. With a tentative nod, I acknowledged the looming ritual.

“Speak, child!” My father’s voice snapped, demanding my respect.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered.

“Is that how you dare to address me?” He growled, a surge of authority in his tone.

“Yes,Pakhan,” I corrected, clearing my throat. “Yes,Pakhan,” I repeated, louder this time.

“Take this goblet and partake in the essence of the brothers who came before you.”

The golden chalice held vodka, infused with a drop of blood from all the made men, a testament to their contribution to the family’s ascent in power. Father had explained that, following my ceremony, my blood would be added to future rituals.

I raised the glass to my lips as my father addressed the assembled men.

“As he emerges into manhood, we shall bear witness to his extraordinary potential. He won’t reign, but he will serve as his brother’s most formidable right-hand man, a force we have never witnessed before.”

A chorus of cheers erupted as I forced down the repugnant metallic concoction, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I fought to maintain a composed façade, concealing my revulsion.

My father leaned in, whispering to my godfather, “bring the woman.”

My godfather, Roger, departed to fetch my mother, and it seemed she couldn’t have been far, for he returned with her swiftly, dragging her in by her hair, her silence an eerie contrast to the brutal circumstances.

Even with her before me, I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

“Face your destiny, boy,” my father commanded, extending a pistol for me to take.

My eyes shifted to the men, standing like resigned sentinels, their figures shrouded in shadow. When I hesitated to accept the weapon, father placed it firmly into my trembling hand.

Years of training kicked in, as I raised the gun to my mother’s temple. She understood that her fate was sealed, and she offered no resistance. Yet, I couldn’t muster the courage to meet her eyes. Instead, I focused on the cold steel pressing against her forehead.

In that agonizing moment, memories of our time together flooded my mind; the kindness she had shown me, the stark contrast between her worldview and my father’s.

“Do it, child,” my father whispered, his voice eerily calm.

My finger remained poised, unwilling to squeeze the trigger.

“Do it,” he urged, the pressure building with each passing second.

When I still made no move to take her life, my father lost his composure.

“Kill her now!” He shouted, his echo reverberating off the walls.

I felt something warm slide down my legs. I’d pissed myself in front of all our men. Some quietly chuckled.

“Viktor,” my mom whispered.

I finally met her gaze.

Tears shining in her eyes, my mom mouthed she loved me, and that it was okay. She closed her eyes.

Still, I couldn’t do it.

My mother’s lids flew open, sheer panic shining in their depths. She grabbed the barrel and steadied it on her forehead, taking a deep breath before saying, “it’s okay, son. You can do it.”

I was crying silently. I could feel the air move behind me and knew my father was about to harm me, to kill me for humiliating him like this.

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