Page 6 of Unspoken

I peel my eyes open only to see my older brother looming from the threshold. He’s the epitome of power and poise, Father’s favorite. And even though the bedroom is fully sunlit right now, his invisible shadow stretches over to me like a spirit of the bloody dynasty we're chained to.

"Alexander, for Christ's sake!" The voice slices through the haze, sharp and commanding. "What is it I hear about youdriving off another bodyguard I hired for you?" His tone is clipped, cold as the steel of a blade.

Vlad crosses the space between us, each step a measured beat in the silence. He kicks an empty beer can that stands in his way. It skitters across the floor with a nasty rattle like an unwanted intruder in his ordered world.

He's dressed to the nines, looking like he's stepped out of some high-end fashion mag rather than the sweltering Nevada heat. Tailored suit, perfectly creased, shoes shining as if competing with the sunlight, a small fortune on his wrist in the form of a watch. Dark brown hair neatly cut and styled, not a strand daring to defy him.

His face, though, it’s like looking at a ghost. It bears the stamp of our father, the same chiseled jaw, the same piercing gray eyes. It's a mirror reflecting a legacy I loathe, a reminder of the blood that ties us together. Sometimes, I see myself looking exactly like Vlad years down the road, and then as I get older—Yuri. If I make it this far, of course.

"Vlad," I grunt, my own voice rough with sleep and disuse. "Always a joy." I don’t bother getting up.

He doesn't smile. Never does when it comes to family or business. Or both. He only smiles when he gets a new ride. And as I glance up at him, all decked out and filled with authority, I can't help but feel a wave of something far darker than resentment—the desperate need to tear my way out from under the weight of his—of our—surname.

"Did you scare off this one with your scowl or was it the Shakespearean soliloquy at breakfast?" my brother asks as he comes to a halt when he reaches my bed.

"Get lost, Vlad," I mutter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it holds the universe's secrets. "I don’t need a bloody babysitter."

Another step and Vlad's silhouette looms over me, a monolith of overpriced fabric and barely restrained irritation."You're a target, Sasha. I am not able to protect you all the time. I have a business to run."

"Maybe I fancy a bit of danger," I snap, pushing myself up to sit. The mattress dips under my weight, a willing accomplice in this familiar dance of defiance.

"Is that right?"

"Better than being smothered." I swing my legs over the bed's edge, the floor cold against my bare feet—a nice contrast to the searing heat outside these walls.

"Smothered?" He shakes his head, for a moment the hard lines of his face soften. "I'm trying to keep you safe,ti, ushlyopok tupoi. To give you a chance to finish college and get a good job in the field you want."

"For real?" I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. "Since when do we care about art in this family? Or what this family wants in general?"

"Since you showed talent," he says quietly, the steel in his tone melting for a second. "Since I saw something other than this"—he gestures vaguely at the lavish room—"for us."

"Us?" The word tastes sour like a bitter reminder of the rift between intention and reality. "There's no 'us' in this family, Vlad. There's power and there's fear. That's all."

"Maybe once." His gray eyes flicker with something akin to hope—or is it regret? "But things can change, Sasha. We can change them."

"Can we?" I challenge, rising to meet his towering figure. "Or are we just deluding ourselves, playing dress-up in a world that will never accept who we really are?"

For an instant, the facade cracks completely, and I see my brother—the boy who once shared whispered dreams in the darkness, before the mantle of leadership and Father’s sanction forced the light out of his eyes.

We stare at each other. The room is thick with heavy silence and my heart is beating so hard in my chest I’m terrified Vlad can hear it, can tell how much of a coward I am on the inside. How a fraction of me—a small one but still—is secretly glad it wasn’t me in the Lambo when it blew up.

"I want you to research universities in the area. Something within an hour's drive. Meanwhile, I’ll have Andrey handle the transfer of your credits from London. Get back to your studies to complete your degree," Vlad insists, the mask of authority sliding back into place. "Prove you can be more than what's expected of you. Then we will talk about your future."

"Prove it to whom?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling. And not from fear. But from fury. "To you? To them? Or to the ghost of a man who would’ve rather seen me dead than different?"

He doesn't answer, but the silence speaks volumes, a thick veil that neither of us can lift.

"You think this is about college? About some bloody degree?" I spit out. Sometimes, I want him to read my mind, to see right through me so we could be done with this charade. Because I’m tired of it, tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of looking over my shoulder, wondering if I said something wrong, if I did something out of line with whom I’m expected to be.

"What do you suggest?" Vlad asks. "That I simply let you go?Bratishka, you will be dead within days on your own."

"Well, maybe it’s better that way!"

His jaw tightens, and I can see the battle raging behind those steely eyes. "Don’t you dare say that to me again, Alexander!"

When he starts calling me by my full name, I know he’s pissed for real and there won’t be any reasoning with him. Although, I’m not sure if I’m a worthy productive discussion opponent right now. My thoughts are all tangled up, and my mouth spouts shit I don’t mean.

"It is not just about you or your whims. It is about the survival of this family," Vlad grits out, his voice dropping several octaves.

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