The Heart's Match

Chapter 1

Please note before starting this story: All my translations were done via Google, so they are most likely not accurate. I apologize in advance, but until I get any sort of editor, this is as good as I can do :) thanks for understanding! Enjoy. 

Chapter 1

Damien Yenin, Age 11

14 Years Ago

Moscow

I linger outside of father's old office and listen to Mother crying to Uncle. I don't like when she cries. It makes me feel this weird, unfamiliar ache in the pit of my stomach that I can't name or place for the life of me. I fiddle with my lighter – the one Ivan gave me for my 10th birthday. I click it on and off, on and off. It almost soothes that weird ache inside at the sound of my mother crying.

Father died suddenly less than a month ago. The house has been eerily silent, with only the echoes of someone crying at all times somewhere. It's grating, honestly. I never understood tears. What use are they? How is one able to even render them?

I learned years ago that I wasn't like everyone else.

"There is something broken in him," I remember my father telling my mother once.

"He scares me, Peter," I remember her saying back to him in a low, harsh whisper.

Something twists deep down, even now, remembering that. The feeling goes away as fast as it arrives, though. They always do.

I sigh miserably as I continue lighting and extinguishing the lighter in my hand.

Uncle is trying to assure Mother that Ivan will be okay. He's been called up for his conscription. Mother wants Uncle to take him away, to take him to America. New York City. I've never been but have seen pictures and films with the Empire State Building and all that. I've never particularly had the desire to go to America, but if Ivan goes, maybe I will too.

Their arguing grows louder. Mother's tears along with it.

A throat clears as my oldest brother, and the subject of the conversation, Ivan approaches. He looks casual, hands in his pockets. He's nine years older than me. I've always looked up to him, wanted to be like him.

I flick my lighter again. He smirks as he slides down the wall next to me.

"What're they talking about?" he asks in our native tongue.

"You," I smirk.

"Ah. The conscription," he mutters, rubbing his fingers over his chin, wincing a bit.

"What do you want?" I ask.

He shrugs, "I don't know what I want."

"That doesn't surprise me."

Ivan shoves me playfully. "I want to be Pakhan."

"You will be. One day. Soon," I flick the lighter on and watch it till the flame whips around in the drafty old house.

"Uncle will train me," Ivan straightens.

"You'll be a good Pakhan," I nod, meaning it.

"And you'll be my right-hand."

"Raul will be your right-hand," I mutter. Our middle brother, Raul, would be more likely to be his right-hand than me due to me being the youngest.