Paranoid. Insomniac.

Chapter 16: Trophy

*DOMINIK

I've been dreading this moment. Since Annika and I broke up, I knew I was going to have to face my father. There's no avoiding it. Either I come out of my own free will or he kidnaps me and traps me in his house. Not that he could.

Since I was a toddler, I'd been trained to fight. I had it rough growing up. Not like him. Grandad, when he was the Mafia Boss, always spoiled him. My dad didn't start training until he was 17. He didn't gain the boss title until he was 25. That thought alone make me want to kill him sometimes. For making me go through what no child should. Suffer how no person should. Kill before I knew basic algebra. My life's a fucking nightmare.

One of my father's maids open the door before I go up the steps. She's pretty. Long hair, a lot of makeup. It makes me sick because I know what kind of a man he is. He's hired her just to fantasize about her all day. Makes me wonder how many times he's cheated in his marriage with mom.

I head straight to the dining room. Every one of our last few meetings have been held there. We catch up, argue, then I leave. Simple as that. Honestly, I don't know why I keep coming. My father disowned my brother, surely he'll disown me at some point, right?

My father eats his dinner at the head of the table. His hair, the same midnight black as mine, but slicked back. His eyes darker like my brother's. A feature dad's always hated in Denis. He says it makes him look like a disappointment. I lucked out with my mother's bright eyes. The only problem being they were never as blue as hers. My whole life they shone silver. At times, a dark gray. Never peaceful like her ocean blue. Terrifying like a blinding fog.

I sit at the opposite end of the table, farthest from his evil. A different maid serves me my plate. I can't even think of food, impatient to hear his objections about my life. Thankfully, he speaks before I can run past the 14 seats separating us and rip out his vocal cords.

"Pochemu the eto sdelal?" He asks in Russian.

"We weren't meant for each other," I respond in English, knowing it'll piss him off.

"Pochemu govorit na tacom uzhasnom anglish? ...Yi chto zastavlyayet tebya thuck govorit?" He grimaces, hating the use of English in his house. He wonders why, again.

"Annika is not my wife. I helped her during a rough time and now that's over."

He slams the round end of his fork against the table. It echoes on the tall ceiling, "Zakroy roth! Govori na svoem rodnom yazyke!" Again with speaking in my native language.

"Why don't you just rip out my tongue and hang it on a necklace? Wear me like a trophy, how you wore my mother's death." I refer to the day she died. In less than 24 hours my father turned from a loving husband into a sympathy whore. He capitalized on her death and gained millions from trades, gifts, condolences in general.

My words are like daggers and his only response is taking his steak knife and hurling it towards me. As it spins in the air, I determine the distance it would have to be for me to catch it by the handle. I'm off by a little. I lean my head back an inch, catch the flying blade by the handle, and focus on the centimeter of space between my nose and my killer.

I exhale, calmer now that he doesn't have an immediate weapon. My father gives me a sad expression. Not because he could've killed me. But because he missed. Disappointed, he storms off to another room, leaving me alone with my disturbed thoughts, how he's always left me.