Page 5 of Ruins
“Why not Angelo?” My voice is low, sharp. “He’s next in line to lead.”
My father’s expression doesn’t shift, but his eyes cool several degrees. “I have other plans for Angelo.”
The vagueness doesn’t sit right.
He reaches into his desk, pulls out a thick manila folder, and slides it toward me. It stops just short of the edge.
I don’t touch it.
Instead, I inhale slowly, forcing the tension from my neck and shoulders before snatching the folder off the desk in one sharp, deliberate motion. The rough edge scrapes against my fingertips as I flip it open.
The first thing I see is a photograph.
A young woman stares back at me—golden hair cascading in soft waves, framing a face too light for the weight of the world she comes from. Crystal blue eyes shine with an untouched brightness, out of place in the darkness we swim in.
Delicate features soften her presence, making her look almost ethereal.
She’s smiling.Genuinelysmiling.
It’s disarming.
She wears a fitted black turtleneck tucked into a dark plaid skirt that falls mid-thigh, the bare stretch of skin between the hem and her ankle boots adding an edge of playfulness to an otherwise composed appearance. The juxtaposition feels intentional—elegance laced with subtle rebellion.
Her full lips curve into that same soft smile.
Like she doesn’t know anything about the world she lives in.
She lookskind. Fragile.Breakable.
“Your bride,” my father announces, his voice slicing through my thoughts. He gestures toward the photo with that same smug satisfaction. “The cousin of the Pakhan.”
I lift an eyebrow, letting the folder drift shut under my fingers as I lean back in the chair. “She looks young.” The words fall flat, emotionless, but the implication is clear.
My father barely acknowledges it. “She’s twenty,” he replies, casual as ever.
I set the folder down, sliding it across the desk without breaking eye contact. “She’stooyoung. I’m not marrying her.”
The leather of my chair creaks faintly as I straighten, a deliberate move—one that should signal the end of the conversation.
It doesn’t.
“Nonsense.” His tone hardens, any feigned warmth draining from his expression. “Your mother and I had more years between us than that.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch between us, thickening the air, making it heavier than the smoke curling between us.
Finally, I say it—cold, sharp. “That’s exactly my point.”
Beside me, Angelo cracks open the folder, his interest obvious as his gaze lingers on the photo. His lips quirk in amusement.
“I’ll marry her.”
He leans back, a lazy chuckle escaping—just enough bite in the suggestion torile me.
Our father shakes his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No, she’s for Santo,” he says, gesturing toward me without missing a beat. His eyes flick to Angelo. “Besides, once he marries her, you get what you want.”
My attention snaps to Angelo.
His grin falters. Something unreadable flashes behind his eyes. I catch the slight dip of his head—shame, maybe regret—but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
