Siberian Treasure

29

“The prodigal son … at last.”

Roman chose the most comfortable seat in Victor’s spacious apartments. “I presume you have been well cared for during your stay?”

“The vodka dried up a week ago,” Victor snapped. “Other than that, I have few complaints. Brother dear.”

“Ah. The vodka. I would have thought you’d tired of it by now.” Roman swept his gaze over his twin. “You look well.” He would if he were two decades older than he was. His sallow skin hugged hollow cheekbones, and his hair, still thick but now a metallic grey, needed a trim. The same dark blue eyes set in his own face stared back at him, foggy but still glinting with life. Perhaps the vodka hadn’t numbed him enough. Serious tremors shook his thin hand as he reached for a glass of water. If he’d shaved his head, he’d still look enough like Roman to be mistaken for an ill, thinner version. Perhaps if Roman had been the one to live Out-World, he would look the same.

Perhaps not.

“I never thought I would see you again,” Victor told him, surprising Roman with his frankness.

“I did not intend for you to do so. Our agreement was such. But as time has evolved, things have changed, and I chose to call you back.”

“Does Lev know?”

Roman knew that there were several layers to that question, and he thought about which levels to answer. He chose the simple one that answered them all: “He is aware that you are expected.”

“All these years ….” Victor shifted, his bony wrists knocking the table with the clumsiness of someone much older than he actually was.

“I hope that you had a good life. Got all that you wished.” And for that brief moment, Roman meant the words. His envy of Victor had nearly ruined him, and would have negated all that he had accomplished. It had been years before he accepted how things had turned out, and realized that in the end, he would have it all.

Yes, he had lost those years … but soon, he would have all that he desired. And his brother would remain this shell of a man. Carrying, he hoped, the guilt for what he’d done with him to his grave.

The guilt that Roman had seized upon as his own salvation; a tool to obtain what he desired most.

“And Marina? What does she know about this? About us?”

“Nothing! Of course, nothing!” Fear leapt into Victor’s eyes. Good. His daughter meant something to him. Leverage was always useful when playing such cat and mouse games.

“I have told her nothing.”

“That is well. She will be joining us soon, Victor. I prefer to be the one to educate her, if you don’t mind. My brain is not sodden with — is it Stoli? — and I wager I’ll do a better job.”

“Don’t involve her in this, Roman. What good will it do?” Victor had a fleck of spittle on his lower lip.

“What good? Why, she has the blood of Shamans and Skalas in her. She is the last of the Aleksandrovs and she must meet her grandfather. She must fulfill her destiny.” He fiddled with his thumb, checking a bruise on his nail which had blossomed from a small grey-blue mark to over the entire nail with black. “She is a brilliant, brave young woman. You must be proud of her.” Bitterness tinged his voice. Jealousy.

“I want no harm to come to her.”

Roman looked at his twin, born the older by no more than one hundred seconds. One hundred seconds that had haunted him all of his life. One hundred seconds that had driven every decision he’d ever made. “Of course there will be no harm to her. Why would I harm the Heiress to the Sacred?”