The Arrangement: Chapter 4

Dinner with the love of my life. What more could a father want?

As I sit across from Adelina, my four-year-old girl, her excitement fills the room. The soft glow of the dining room chandelier dances in her eyes as she chatters about her day, about the ballet recital she’s been tirelessly preparing for. Her enthusiasm is infectious, even to a man like myself, accustomed to concealing his emotions behind a veil of calculation and control.

‘Papa, Ms. Elena says I’m getting better. She says I might be ready for the solo part!’ Adelina’s voice is full of hope and pride, her small hands gesturing with every word she speaks.

I can’t help but see her mother, Ana, in her in these moments—her grace, her passion for dance. It’s both a comfort and a pang of loss. ‘That’s wonderful, Ade. Your mother would have been so proud to see you dance,’ I say, my voice steady, despite the turmoil Ana’s memory always stirs within me.

Adelina’s smile falters for a moment, a shadow of sadness crossing her features. ‘Do you think Mama can see me from where she is?’

I pause, the weight of her question grounding me. ‘Yes, I believe she can. And I know she’s very proud of you, just like I am.’

She nods, accepting this, and quickly bounces back to her usual bubbly self. ‘I’m going to practice every day so I can be the best!’

‘Being the best requires discipline and hard work. I have no doubt you’ll achieve whatever you set your mind to,’ I encourage, my words deliberate, aimed to instill the values that have guided my own path—though I hope hers will be far less fraught with shadows.

Adelina giggles, clearly pleased with the conversation. ‘Will you come to see me dance?’

‘Nothing could keep me away,’ I assure her.

My commitments to the family business are always secondary to the promises I make to her. It’s a balance, a careful orchestration of priorities that few in my position might understand. But Adelina is my number one, a fact I’ve made abundantly clear to everyone, from my father to the men who operate under me.

As Adelina chatters on, her excitement about the ballet recital painting her features with a joy I rarely allow myself to feel, I can’t help but draw parallels between her and her mother. ‘You’re so much like your mother,’ I find myself saying.

‘Why do you say that, Papa?’ Adelina asks, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “Is it because we’re both dancers?”

‘It’s not just the dancing,’ I explain, watching her closely. ‘You have her smile, Ade. The same one that could light up a room.’ As the comparison settles between us, her smile falters into a sigh.

‘I wish I could remember her,’ she murmurs, a shadow of longing crossing her young face.

Irina, our matronly housekeeper and Adelina’s de facto nanny, chooses that moment to step in. Her timing, as always, is impeccable. She catches the tail end of our conversation, and her expression shifts into one I’ve come to know all too well—the look that says she believes it’s high time I find a wife, a mother figure for Adelina.

“Alright, Ade,” she says, her Russian accent thick. “Time to get ready for bed. If you cooperate, we can have a little sherbet before I tuck you in.”

“Yay!”

Irina takes Adelina upstairs and I’m left alone with my thoughts. The day is over for my little girl, but there’s still business to attend to for myself. My father wishes to meet with me, to have one of his little meetings that I wonder, at times, are more about demanding my time than actual necessity.

I prepare myself an espresso, my mind already shifting gears to the tasks awaiting me. Irina comes down a bit later, likely off to the kitchen for Ade’s dessert.

‘I’ll be home late,’ I inform her.

‘You know, a beautiful wife would keep you home more,’ she retorts, a smile on her lips.

I laugh. ‘Irina, why don’t you just marry me and solve all our problems?’

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, as they say. Now, shoo. Don’t keep that grump of a father of yours waiting.” Adelina’s voice calls out for her, pulling her attention away from our banter.

Once alone, I glance at my watch, the sleek hands indicating it’s time to shift gears from family to business. I leave the warmth of home behind, stepping out into the crisp Chicago evening.

The drive to my father’s place isn’t long, but the few miles span a world apart. We both reside in an exclusive gated community in Lake Forest, a haven for Chicago’s elite. His mansion dwarfs my own spacious, five-bedroom home, a silent testament to the hierarchy within our family, though I’ve never felt lacking—not in space or in stature.

As I navigate the familiar route, the grandiosity of my father’s residence looms ahead, its opulence a sharp contrast to the simpler, albeit comfortable, life Adelina, Irina, and I lead. Aleksey, my ambitious half-brother, also calls this affluent neighborhood home, though our paths seldom cross outside the obligatory family gatherings.

The security detail outside of my father’s estate recognizes my car immediately, waving me through with a nod of respect. Tiffany, my father’s wife and Aleksey’s mother, greets me at the door. Her appearance, ever the epitome of luxury and cosmetic perfection, prompts the customary exchange of pleasantries as I peck her Botoxed cheek—a gesture of politeness rather than affection.

‘Igor is in his office,’ she informs me, her tone light yet carrying the undercurrent of the family dynamics that dictate our interactions.

‘Thank you, Tiffany,’ I reply, my voice even.

The path to my father’s office is as familiar as it is foreboding. Igor Morozov, patriarch, businessman, and sometimes adversary, waits with Aleksey by his side. The air in the room is charged, a mix of anticipation and underlying tension that’s become a hallmark of our gatherings.

Aleksey, leaning against the polished mahogany desk, doesn’t notice my entrance. His physical presence—taller than average, with a build that speaks to years of disciplined physical training, his dark hair slicked back in a manner that attempts to imitate our father’s authoritative style—contrasts sharply with the petulance that often marks his countenance and demeanor. He’s speaking animatedly, unaware of my observation.

‘…and this pet daycare owner, she’s yet to settle Ned’s debt. Quite the peach, too,’ Aleksey remarks with a leer, unaware of the line he’s treading. His voice carries a mix of amusement and disdain, a combination I’ve grown accustomed to navigating. “Gorgeous, in fact. Makes me wonder what she looks like underneath that dog-hair-covered apron she wears.”

He laughs loudly at his own joke as Father rolls his eyes.

I remain silent, my entrance stealthy as a shadow, allowing him to continue unchecked. His comment about Tory irks me—unprofessional, unnecessary. Yet, I choose not to react. In this game, every emotion displayed is a weakness exploited.

Only when he pauses, perhaps sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere, do I make my presence fully known. ‘Father, Aleksey,’ I greet, my tone neutral, revealing nothing of my thoughts.

My brother turns, momentarily surprised, then quickly masks it with a broad grin, coming over and clapping me on the back as if we’re allies rather than rivals held together by blood. ‘Maksim! Just the man I wanted to see,’ he declares, reaching for the scotch on the desk. ‘Drink?’

I nod, accepting the gesture for what it is—a play at camaraderie, as transparent as it is necessary.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, taking the glass he offers.

Our father sits behind an imposing desk that’s as much a barricade as it is a piece of furniture. His age is belied by the depth in his dark eyes, the same eyes I’ve inherited. Age has only slightly stooped his broad shoulders, and his hair, though silver, remains thick and meticulously groomed. He’s a man whose commanded fear and respect in equal measure, and even now, in his later years, his presence demands attention.

‘Maksim,’ he starts, his voice carrying the weight of decades of unchallenged power. ‘Have you handled the matter with the woman? The debt owed by that fool?‘

I stand before him, my posture relaxed but alert. ‘Yes, Father. It’s being addressed,’ I respond, my tone even, betraying none of the complexity of emotions Tory’s situation has stirred within me.

‘And?’ he probes further, his gaze sharp. ‘Has she complied? Or do we need to encourage her cooperation?’

‘The situation is under control,’ I assure him, aware of the unspoken implications of his ‘encouragement.’ ‘There’s no need for further action at this point.’

My father sits back, studying me with a scrutiny that’s dissected and guided my actions since childhood. ‘Make sure it is, Maksim. We cannot allow debts to go unpaid. It sets a precedent.’

‘Understood,’ I reply.

The conversation shifts to other matters—territories, shipments, alliances—but my focus wavers. My thoughts drift to Tory, her defiance, her strength. And a realization that’s as unexpected as it is unsettling: I’m considering forgiving her debt.

Not just forgiving it but erasing it entirely, an action that defies the very principles I’ve been raised on. And beyond that, the burgeoning desire to ask her out, to explore the connection that, despite all logic, seems to draw me to her.

The meeting with my father concludes with the usual assurances and directives, but as I take my leave, the weight of my thoughts anchors me. The decision I’m contemplating marks a potential shift in my world’s axis.