Their Wife (Reverse Harem)

64

Nikolai.

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Eleven years ago.
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"I want out."

Three words as simple as they were, yet their significance to the man before me was like fueling a fire that cannot be tamed. A fire so blazing and ferrous that I was the one to burn to ashes with it.

I knew what I was doing and I knew what I wanted and nothing would deter me from asking for it. It was too much. This life was consuming me. I wanted a normal one.

Not this.

"Что ты только что сказал мне, мальчик?"
(What did you just say to me, boy?)

My sperm donor took a puff of his Cuban cigar, the smoky scent invading my nostrils and forming a halo of sin around his head as he puffed it out. A beacon of all that was bad and ugly was the correct way to describe it because he was the fucking worst.

From my peripheral my brothers shifted in their places, uncomfortable, their heads bowed slightly, their hands behind their back monotonous and unmoving. Like statues. Or like the obedient soldiers that he made of them.

Dimitri and the other high-ranked members of my father's inner circle were scared, all of them were. I could tell but I wasn't. I didn't want to be under his thumb anymore. Someone replaceable, someone he couldn't give a single fuck about.

"I want out of this life."

He stood up from his seat. His cane in hand made my eyes snap to the markings on his battered knuckles that we were condemned to uphold our whole lives. A dirty claim that the crime world had on us.

I noted the slight limp to his right leg, his blond greying hair, those cold green eyes that my brother was cursed to inherit from this man and the snarl that took over his lips as he beckoned me with his finger to his side as threatening as his mannerisms were, they only made my anger spike.

My head held high, I stood before him. Emotionless.

"You want," he innocently tilted his head that it  had my breath hitch in my throat, "-- Out?"

"Да, сэр." We weren't allowed to call him anything but that. After all, he never was a father to us neither were we his children.
(Yes, sir)

He hummed twisting the pure gold rings adorning his fingers, my eyes squinting in assessment as he did. A red ruby glinted in one of those rings, that didn't belong to him. They were reminders. Leftovers of his enemies.

He liked showing people how scary he could be and took upon himself to wear the jewelry that his deceased rivals once had on. It was a fucked up collection of watches, rings and chains that belonged to dead people. People that he killed.

"Боюсь. Это невозможно," I glared at him briefly before veering my eyes elsewhere. I knew not to provoke him if I wanted to get what I needed.
(I'm afraid. That is not possible,)

He was like a predator seeking the slightest bit of a challenge just to excuse the havoc he'd bring to said person that challenged him. And I was wise enough for a twenty one-year-old man and kept my eyes away from his.

"But-" he trailed off swiveling his way to grab something.

Our heirloom. An all-gold with a white chamber T- Glock turning off its safety and the subtlest bits of fear stroke me. He almost never used it and always said that its bullets were too pure to waste over worthless lives.

"You can leave this life, if you do this one , little thing," I could hear the smirk in his voice as I casted my eyes down fighting the urge to kill this man that called himself my father.