Alek

Chapter 4: Alek Russo

Chapter 4: Alek Russo

"What the hell were you thinking?" my father roars, slamming his black notebook onto his neatly tidied office table. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

I sit before him inside his large office in our home, the wall behind him a dark black colour with all sorts of expensive-looking designs I've never paid much attention to. A computer sits on my left beside a large stack of papers that I don't bother reading, and on my right, there's a thick book with a large cup of finished coffee.

Three years ago, my father had the entire mansion renovated. Every wall was painted black, the gold furniture was swapped with black, the floors were changed to match the new colour and even the windows were replaced.

I hate it. I hate everything about the fucking mansion.

"I was dealing with the woman who killed your eldest son," I say, forcing my voice to remain calm. "Three years ago you refused to deal with her yourself, so here I am, dealing with it for you."

"What?" my father blinks as if I've sprouted demon horns and alligator scales.

"Mae Kazimi," I grit my teeth. "The woman who killed Matteo. Your son. Or did you already forget him like you forgot my mother?"

Silence.

"You will speak to me with respect," he hisses, steely black eyes glaring at me. "And you will not mention your mother in this house. Are we clear?"

I ignore him, gripping the side of the chair tightly between my hands, "When mom was sick, where the hell were you? Where were you when she was fighting her disease? Where were you when she was on her deathbed?"

My father stills from where he sits across from me, angry eyes frozen on my face.

I take this as a sign to continue because I don't care. I don't care about anything. Not my life, not him, not his fucking wife, nothing and no one. For as long as Lorenzo has been alive, I've been put in second in front of his eyes. I'm never good enough, at least not as good as Lorenzo. I can come back from an impossible task that could've meant my death, but my father will still congratulate Lorenzo for learning a song on my fucking piano.

Even if it was me, who taught Lorenzo that song.

It's been like this for years now. After Matteo's death, it only got worse. I am the heir to the Italian mafia as the rules state, and no amount of power my father holds can change that. There are some rules even mafia bosses must follow, and this is one of them.

"I was only seven when she died. You left me, a fucking child, to look after your wife! And where were you? That's right, you were out building another family of your own while your two sons struggled to keep your dying wife alive on her deathbed."

The silence stretches on and on. My father stares at me, mouth slightly agape.

I let out an angry laugh, leaning back in my chair. My arm has begun to hurt, and my head is pounding with a headache. I run my hands through my messy black hair.

"You know," I said slowly, looking down to my father's table, "After mom died, Matteo and I used to sit by her bed every day, waiting for her to wake up. We hadn't known she was dead, we were so young. We waited and waited, and Matteo would go to the kitchen to make her food and leave it by her bed every day while I read her one of my stupid storybooks that I'd just learned to read. But she never woke up.

"Days passed and you never came home," my voice slightly cracks, and I look up to meet his eyes. "Her dead body stayed there and rotted on that bed. Matteo and I didn't know, not until the room began to stink so bad that Matteo went out to call for help. We didn't know what to do. We were scared and shaking when her body was finally taken away, and Matteo blamed himself every day. I was seven, dad. Matteo was nine."