Page 6 of Empire
I sit back down, and hate how quickly my body remembers obedience before pride can stop it. I hate the fact that Ruslan sees it, too.
The meeting crawls forward after that, with everyone conceding to my idea from before. I speak only once when spoken to directly, but my father does not acknowledge me. Mickhail and the others carry on as though the split in the room has already been sealed.
That’s what powerful men do; they ignore damage until it starts costing them.
I feel Ruslan’s gaze slide over me when he thinks no one’s looking. I feel the ghost of my father’s disappointment burning under my skin even more.
When the meeting ends, I need air, a locked door, and ten uninterrupted minutes to tear my own thoughts apart.
The room empties around us, the doors close, and the silence that follows is absolute. I keep my hands loose at my sides and my expression blank, because that’s how you survive a man like my father.
You don’t fill the silence, you don’t defend yourself too fast, and you don’t hand him your throat and call it honesty.
My father turns to face me fully. He doesn’t look angry; I almost prefer the anger.
I know better than to speak first when he takes his time to adjust the cuff of his glove.
“You embarrassed me.”
The words come sharp and with no restraint. It hits me hard, even though I am fully braced for it.
“I was trying to—”
“Trying?” he cuts in with a scoff. “You don’t try, Salvatore. You either succeed or you fail, and what you did in here was fail. Spectacularly.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t argue.
“You let him provoke you,” he continues, his gaze cutting worse than a dagger ever could. “You let a Russian dog drag you down to his level in front of every family that matters. Do you have any idea what that makes you look like?”
I swallow, the words sitting heavy in my chest. “No, sir.”
“It makes you look weak. I won’t have my son behaving like a street dog at the slightest provocation. You are a Vieri. You do not rise because some Bratva brat bares his teeth and wants a spectacle.”
The disappointment is worse than the anger would have been. It always is. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. “If you understood, I would not have had to look at you at all.”
That one lands the deepest because it’s true. My father doesn’t correct in public, unless he has no choice. The fact that he had to rein me in means I gave him something ugly enough to notice.
He steps closer, his voice lowering. “Do not make me ashamed to call you my son again.”
“I won’t, sir.”
His expression tells me he doesn’t care whether I mean it, only whether I obey.
I stand in the empty room after he leaves, jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it. The guards avoid looking at me as I walk, leaving through the private elevator to my floor.
I loosen my tie as I wait, my father’s words replaying in my head, keeping me small and ashamed.
When the doors open, I step out without hesitation, walking toward my room where I can be alone with this.
I lock my door when I enter and turn, closing my eyes and resting my back against it with a sigh. “You should leave.”
“That’s no way to greet me.”
Ruslan walks toward me; jacket off, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattooed forearms, black shirt open at the throat.
“You’ve got a talent for showing up where you’re not wanted,” I say.
