Dinastiya Tested // 3rd Book of the Takaryev Trilogy

Chapter 38

Ravil glared bitterly at Myron's portrait, which hung on the wall of the office that he had once occupied as head of the FSB- the same office he'd deserted in order to move to the Kremlin palace and get closer to Alina. 

The mocking viridian eyes that Ravil had so perfectly inherited, the expensive glasses, the dark hair, pale skin, and vibrant red tie formed a photo, a snapshot, of the man Ravil despised like no other. And yet, they were so similar- father and son, total opposites somehow, but bound by blood, name, and appearance. 

With disgust and angered indignity burning violently in his gaze, Ravil read the name, engraved in gold just beneath the portrait itself. 

Myron Izmaylov. 

A twisting rage was born in Ravil's chest, and his glasses flashed as he glared ruthlessly at the portrait of his father. 

Well, well, well. Myron's voice returned from the grave, on a quest to haunt. Ravil Myronovich Takaryev- or should I say Ravil Myronovich Izmaylov? 

Ravil clenched his fists, but remained unflinching. "Go back to hell where you belong," he muttered. 

In all truth, Ravil, you should be here with me. Dead. Myron's voice taunted him. You're a mistake, and your mother was a manipulator sent by the devil himself. 

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Ravil snarled, fishing a knife from his pocket. 

Have you? Myron's voice kept speaking. You should. We look just alike. And if you really do some thinking on the matter, we even act the same. 

You- 

Ravil set his jaw and held the knife with trained precision. 

-are- 

The young president glared into the eyes that so closely matched his own. And he decided.

-me. 

With a screech, Ravil plunged the knife into that serpentine painted face. He took hold of the frame and tore it from the wall, tossing it across the room and watching as it clattered to the floor. 

He took a deep breath and put the knife down on Myron's old desk. 

The office door creaked open, giving way to Leopold's short figure. 

"Ravil?" Leopold examined the mess of a scene with gleaming round glasses. 

Ravil uttered not a word, just stared at Leopold, quite like he'd stared at Myron's portrait. 

"Ravil, my president, don't worry," Leopold's words were meant to console. "It's just a lapse, you were just angry, that's all." 

The adviser approached Ravil and gently ushered him to the door. "It'll all be just fine, it was just a lapse, you see..." 

Leopold's words faded into a sort of background noise. Ravil knew one thing: that he hated this man, Leopold, that there was something terribly off about him. Ravil didn't know, however, exactly why he felt this way about Leopold. 

Even if he did know, he never would've been able to say anything about it.