The Taste Of It

Chapter 4

I stormed into my safehouse, glaring at the guards and our servants. I walked to my room and slammed the door, causing a picture to fall from my wall. I racked a hand through my hair and complicated the pros and cons of storming into the Russo's real estate and killing a certain brunette. 

"Mr. Volkov?" I looked up and saw a maid standing in my doorway. I nodded for her to continue. "Your father wants to see you...now." I nodded again and she took that as her invitation to leave.

I took off my blazer which was blotted with specks of blood. This is the millionth piece of clothing that Isabella ruined. I threw it on my bed and walked out to my father's main office. I knocked and entered without waiting for a response.

"MALEDETTO RITARDATO [DAMN, YOU RETARD] !" I heard my father scream into the phone. "I don't give two shits about what the fuck you do. GET THE FUCKING JOB DONE." He yelled, before hanging up and throwing his phone into a couch.

I sat down on a leather chair in front of his desk as he smoothed a hand over his tie and sat across from me. "Your brother is going to be the death of me." With his easy-going tone and calm dementor, anyone would think he's joking. But I didn't, I heard the faint tremor underneath his tone.

Ah, yes. My younger brother. Ricardo. He was by far the smartest dumbass I knew. He learned quickly, and had book smarts but not street smarts. He was messy with kills, left witnesses behind, and never could keep his dick in his pants. Only other peoples.

I loved him to death but I'd rather not have random chicks coming to our house saying their pregnant.

"That makes two of us." I grumbled as he pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. He passed me another cigarette and the lighter. I took a long drag before my father dropped a bomb.

"The annual ball is coming up." He said calmly. 

Every year, around November or so, the Chicago Mafia planned a ball for other Mafia's. They invite the most powerful ones around the world, usually to keep up with 'drama' and to keep their ties tight.

"The fuck that got to do with me?" I kept my voice calm and my fingers clenched around the chair. 

"I do not want a repeat of last year." His voice held no opposition.

"I didn't start it. She did." God, saying that made me sound like a five-year-old. But it was true. Since Chicago invited powerful Mafia's, that included New York's. Which included Isabella Russo. 

"I don't give two flying shit!" He yelled, dragging out his cigarette. "The family's reputation is on the line. Do you want to embarrass us?"

I didn't answer and he heaved a long sigh. "I don't care who started what. Do not kill her. Or anyone for that matter."

I didn't answer again, my thought lost in the fucking ball. Every year it was the same shit. Isabella and I see each other. We try to act civil but she says something and it starts all over again. last time, we wrecked everything. Tables, stands, chairs, and I'm pretty sure an ice statue. 

He didn't say anything again and I stood up and walked out. How did he expect me to not kill someone who wanted to kill me even more? It was like placing a candy bar in front of a five-year-old, and expecting them to not take it. Impossible.

Unless the kid was some fucking robot, even I couldn't do it at my age.

I walked to my room, ready for a long, hot-as-hell, shower. It was a long ass day and my neck was still stinging from the cut. I walked into my room, slamming the door. I turned to the bathroom and started a shower.

In less than thirty minutes, I turned off the water and got out. I put on dress pants and a button up shirt. I walked out and saw my brother getting yelled at by my father in the living room.

My father's voice was hoarse and his face red, he must've been going on for a while already. Thank fucking God for soundproof walls. My gaze was caught on a redheaded girl in a white sundress. She was timid and hiding in the corner. 

She was most likely my brother's side chick. Can't one guy live in his home in peace? 

I turned away and walked back into my room. I walked into my living room and leaned my head back to check the mark. That motherfucker. 

I leaned my head from different angles, trying to see if it was a mistake. But no, no matter where I looked the cut was in the shape of an I. It was a little off center. The middle part of the I going past the horizontal part of the I. 

She probably planned it that way. To make it an I for Isabella. I'm going to fucking kill her.