Page 1 of King’s Promise

1

Nikolay

Our estate outside of Volgograd is amongst the upper echelon of Russia. We enjoy a nice chunk of land, six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a gym and theater. It reeks of something belonging to Los Angeles A-listers, only it’s winter most of the year, and people dress differently. The paparazzi have to be careful in what they print, otherwise they might disappear. Dad has more surveillance cameras than I can count, most are hidden. I’m not convinced it is beneficial, as anything unsavory can be scrubbed. I’m thinking hundreds of years of subversion to keep an entire country under control won’t be undone by modern technology.

I park my black Porsche 911 Turbo S in the large driveway and greet my father’s right-hand man as he opens the front doors made of glass and etched with our family crest.

“Good morning.” Boris stands aside for me to pass. “Your father is in his office.”

“Thank you.” He gives me a weak smile before walking in the other direction. He has other duties to carry out for Dad, I’m sure.

Why were we summoned? We have no major beef going on with others at the present time. No blood has been spilled this year. Life has been good.

It is with trepidation I make my way to Dad’s office. Mom is nowhere to be seen, another red flag if you ask me because she would never pass up a chance to see Roman. She was allowed to baby him, and he never went away to boarding school like Dmitry and me. We rag on him about it all the time. He’s spoiled beyond what I call healthy. He pulls his weight none-the-less and is adept at carrying out missions we need covered without quarreling over them.

We don't waste our money on gauche items like the nouveau riche who pop up like weeds in our society. They are beyond ridiculous in their attempts to prove to us they are someone and belong in our world. They don’t understand––we don’t give a damn. New money isn’t a threat to us. We have our closed circuit and it’s not changing any time soon.

We’re entrenched into Russia’s landscape like the Kremlin. However, I am not opposed to owning nice things. I have a weakness for fine-tailored clothing, and beautiful women who are slightly older. I like maturity. Mama says I’m too serious. I know the Bratva comes first, and I will lead it one day; I can’t let my guard down, our family comes first.

My new leather loafers move silently over the Persian rugs in the hall. He must have been in here last night, no doubt sipping cognac as he smoked because a trace of a cigar lingers in the air as I approach his office.

I enter his lair, filled with old books and family pictures crammed into a floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcase. A never-played chess set is on display between two chairs in a corner.

“Dad,” I greet my father as he comes around his desk and we hug briefly. Dark circles under his eyes confirm my suspicion he never went to bed last night. He returns to the large mahogany desk as I take off my coat.

“It's about time you joined us," my younger brother says from where he’s sitting on the arm of a leather sofa near my father’s desk. Even though it is worn and faded, my father hangs on to it for the memories we shared sitting on it when it was the only couch we owned. As kids we were only allowed to watch American TV shows when Dad happened to be home. After he made billions, our lives changed drastically. I can't deny those were simpler, and honestly, happier times.

"Dmitry, I'm happy you could join us. I thought you would be visiting one of the brothels for your flavor of the week," I tease my younger brother from across the room. We saw each other a few days ago, working for the family business.

"Boys," Dad’s voice commands planting his large hands on the desk with a jarring emphasis to get our attention before he sits. Our boss, and father remains still.

Immediately I stop cajoling my brother and find a spot by the window overlooking the pool and the grounds beyond it taking in the gray clouds rolling across the sky.

Dmitry sits taller, as if he’s been scolded. I check my father’s face for a read on the situation; is he mad at us? It’s clear from his pallid complexion he’s tired.

"We are here on a serious matter. I would appreciate it if you would both behave." He looks to me, as I'm the oldest. “Where is your brother Roman?"

Under different circumstances, I would've continued to make smart-ass remarks because I love to push my brother’s buttons. However, seeing as how Dad is clearly upset and in a black mood, I hold my tongue. Today is an example of the shitstorm world in which we make our millions. My guess is something terrible has happened or needs to be prevented.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, we all look to the door. The tile floors are made to look like wood and the ceramic makes it impossible to make a silent entrance. Roman is so tall he barely clears the doorway, and his fitted jeans have to be special ordered. His casual dress shoes are of no surprise.

He sheds his leather jacket and tosses it on a chair next to him. “What's going on?” he asks. “I just got in last night,” he explains while taking a seat next to Dmitry. He’s picked up on the dour mood filling the room.

"Great." Dad’s face relaxes upon the final arrival. Normally he’s eager to see us and share his business dealings. However, today he seems stressed. “I have some news, news you might not want to hear, but it has to be said, nevertheless. Nikolay," his eyes find mine, "you should have a seat."

“What can be that important, Father?" I've been to this room many times over the years and never has it been life-changing. Sure, I stayed out past my curfew as a kid. I always ran with the wrong crowd because we are the wrong crowd, and I don't apologize for it. Someone has to be able to step into my father's footsteps when the time comes. Dad always said it would be me. God, I hope he's not ill. I’m not ready to assume the responsibility of the family business. And I’m certainly not ready to get married, something expected of a don.

I sink into the large chair closest to our father. It’s where I should be. I’m in command if he’s not here. Dad sits in his leather office chair with his back to the bookcase. He’s safer when he’s nowhere near the windows. Traditionally, we associate drive-by shootings with America. Here, murders are made to look like accidents. It appears there is a use for retired, faceless KGB agents.

"First things first. One of my closest friends died yesterday. I only got word of it late last night." He gathers his breath. "My friend, Igor Petrov, ran a mafia organization in London and it appears he got in with the wrong crowd. By the wrong crowd, I mean officials here in Russia.”

Dad’s voice quivers and I wonder if this is about the loss of his friend or something else. Maybe he hasn’t told us everything. He’s too smart to make a bad investment. My concern is growing as I wonder if we’ll be affected by Igor’s sudden demise.

Roman lets out a low whistle. Never, ever, trust elected officials. Father’s first rule of business, never trust anyone, but mostly the powers of government. Mafia’s rose like wildflowers after the fall of the USSR, and we’re independent of the Kremlin’s reach. Do they want to own us? I’m sure head leaders are chomping at the bit to control us, but my father has a network of loyal cronies who despise the ruler and help Dad stay off the grid, we don’t want anyone to foil our business deals. Nor do we want them to ask us for favors, such as stashing billions of rubles in order to hide it from international eyes.

Dad continues without commenting on Roman’s vocalization. “Supposedly he hung himself in his secure office building, but I think we all know better. I promised him years ago, should something befall him, I would make sure his family is taken care of.” Dad folds and unfolds his hands on the blotter covering the top of his desk. He turns to me, staring into my eyes.

All that's going through my mind isshit, what the fuck have we gotten into?

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