Page 39 of Empire
Maybe this is what ruins people more effectively than lust. Not the fire, but the possibility of routine.
After breakfast, we take the coffee out to the back terrace. There’s nothing but a stretch of green in front of us; the cicadas are louder now, and the birdsong is low.
Salvatore stretches his legs out in the chair next to me and closes his eyes, face turned into the sunlight. Gods, he looks younger here—less heir, more human.
“You could stay here all the time, you know,” I say.
His eyes open slowly, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Could I?”
I know what he means.Couldandallowedare entirely different species in our lives.
“For today,lyubimiy.”
“For today,” he repeats.
That’s when the foolishness deepens. Maybe because the morning has already done too much damage. Maybe because I’m tired of keeping certain thoughts behind my teeth. Maybe because watching him here, with sunlight on his face and no father’s shadow between us, makes the future feel like a thing a man might touch if he were deranged enough.
“I’ve been thinking about getting out,” I say.
Salvatore turns, a slight crease between his brows. “Out of what?”
I laugh softly. “Everything.”
He studies me for a second longer, realization creeping into his eyes. Then he sets the cup down on the table between us. “That doesn’t sound like a joke.”
“It isn’t.”
A breeze moves through the olive trees below the terrace wall. Somewhere in the kitchen, the fridge clicks on and hums to life. The whole world seems to lean in a fraction.
I rest my forearms on my knees and look over the garden rather than him, because some truths are easier to say sideways.
“I’m tired of being pointed at things and told they’re duty. I’m tired of every bed, every deal, and every city already belonging to my father before I step into it. I’m tired of playing future king for a man I’d rather bury.”
When I finally look at him, he’s watching me with that dark, attentive stillness of his that always makes me want to confess all my sins.
“You’re talking about… leaving the Bratva,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m talking about making sure there’s nothing to leave from.”
He sucks in a breath, panic shining in his eyes now. “Ruslan—”
“There are no rules for me to follow if Mikhail is dead.”
The sentence sits between us, ugly and clear, and Salvatore goes completely still. It should shock him less than it does. We come from families that treat murder the way other people treat the weather: regrettable only when it interrupts plans.
Still, this is different, I suppose. I’m talking about killing my father.
“You’re… You’re serious about this,” he says, and I reply with a nod. “Since when? Why now?”
“A while.”
“How long is a while, Ruslan?”
“Long enough that I’ve stopped fucking lying to myself about it.”
He exhales slowly. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” I say. “Wrong side of the business.”
