Page 7 of Ruins
“Under one condition,” I add, letting the words settle in the space between us.
Angelo stiffens. My father chuckles, low and knowing.
“Tell me,” I continue, gaze locked on my father’s, “what Angelo gets in return for my favor to the family.”
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, like he’s been waiting for me to ask.
“He gets to be the Don.”
The words hang in the air.
I turn to Angelo, reading the flicker of restraint in his eyes. He’s braced for a fight that isn’t coming.
Instead, I grin.
I rise, pulling Angelo into a tight embrace. There’s a brief hesitation in his stance, tension in his muscles, before he claps me hard on the back.
“Good,” I say, meaning it. “It’s about time.”
Angelo steps back, watching me like he’s still trying to figure out if I’m fucking with him.
Our father moves to the bar, retrieving three glasses. The quiet clink of crystal echoes through the room as he pours whiskey, amber liquid swirling in each glass.
“We celebrate,” he declares, passing one to each of us.
We raise them. The soft chime of glass striking glass fills the air, a toast to a future neither of us truly chose.
The whiskey burns down my throat, settling warm in my chest, but it doesn’t wash away the truth.
A strange sense of victory lingers. Bittersweet.Inevitable.
Angelo will take the throne he’s spent years preparing for. I will marry Vasilisa—a girl I haven’t met, whose name I only learned minutes ago.
Not exactly afairtrade.
But fairness doesn’t interest me.Opportunitydoes.
NovaRael isn’t just a dowry—it’s acrown jewelwrapped in ignorance. Vasilisa knows nothing about the empire she’s meant to inherit, and if I move fast, play this right, I’ll have control long before she even realizes what’s slipping through her fingers.
I take another sip, already calculating.
Merging NovaRael with ZUES would transform our operations overnight. Angelo at the helm, my hand on the technology—we could outpace every rival. Expand our reach into territories no one else has dared to touch.
Still, a thin thread of unease coils beneath the surface.
What will Vasilisa think?
The thought flickers—unwelcome, irrelevant.
It doesn’t matter.
She won’t have a say. None of us did.
And if I were a better man, maybe I’d pity her.
But I’m not.
I tip back the rest of my whiskey, swallowing the lingering doubt along with it.
