Page 71 of Bound to a Monster

My father’s always home on Sunday mornings. He likes to get up early, go to church, get a bagel at the deli down the block, and spend time in his office. Sometimes he’s working; other times he’s reading.

I remember the dread I used to feel about Sunday mornings.

Knowing he’d be home and might call me in for one of his manyconversations.

This is different. The darkness simmers in me. Anger and rage are barely restrained. I let myself in his door, and one of his guards is startled to see me there.

I don’t even know the young guy’s name. I barely recognize the people around my father these days.

“I’m here to see Oleg,” I say.

“He’s in his office.” The young guy stares around him like someone might jump out of a door and tell him what to do.

I brush past him before he grows a spine. Just like always, I find my father behind his desk. The remnants of his breakfast sit next to a folded-over newspaper. He’s squinting at something on his phone and frowns at me as I stand in front of his desk.

“Didn’t think you’d show up here,” he says, tapping out a message before turning his attention on me. He leans back and crosses his arms.

Oleg Federov’s a barrel of a man. I remember how big he used to seem, like he was a mountain. Now he seems shriveled, diminished, or maybe that’s just me getting larger. I can’t really say.

“We have to talk.”

“You’re right, we do.”

“You tried to flip my own fucking wife behind my back.”

He seems surprised. “That’s why you’re here?”

“I found the card. She was never going to be your spy.”

“No, I didn’t think she really would be.” He bristles slightly and sits straighter. “She’s just a selfish Italian idiot girl though, and you never know.”

“Don’t approach Carmela ever again. Do you understand me? No more fucking games.”

He’s silent. There’s something bothering him, but I hold my ground. I’m not six years old anymore, afraid of the belt. I’m not eleven and terrified of the knife. I have my scars and wear them proudly, but he’s not going to make any new ones. Not ever again.

“I had an unpleasant conversation after church this morning.” Oleg doesn’t move. When he wants to, he can go disturbingly still. That’s when he’s the most dangerous. “I didn’t even get a chance to get my bagel yet before Frank’s calling me up.”

“Which Frank are we talking about?”

“Don’t you play fucking stupid with me.” He points a crooked finger at me. “You want to talk about games? You’re playing games, boy.”

“You told me to raise funds. I did what you asked.”

“You sold him fakes. You sold hima lotof fakes. And you told him I approved it.”

“That’s because you did.”

“I told you to liquidate stock, not to sell fucking fakes to one of the most honest fucking brokers in the whole goddamn region.” Oleg’s so angry his face is turning pink.

I’m not surprised. If anything, I was expecting this sooner. I stand my ground and let him rage, impotently aware that the power dynamic between us shifted a long time ago.

I can do the hurting now if that’s what I want.

“This never would have happened if you were more involved in the business,” I say loudly, aware that Oleg’s guards are lurking nearby, probably listening. I want them to hear this, and I want them to spread the word.

He’s right—Iamplaying games.

Only he doesn’t know which game yet, and I’ll have already won before he realizes.

---