I turn around to survey the place I call home. It strikes me, not for the first time, how much I f*****g loathe it.
That’s not to say it isn’t nice. It is. This penthouse cost eleven million dollars. The vodka in my hand runs four hundred a bottle. The Patek Philippe on my wrist was a gift from my father on my twenty-eighth birthday, the same night he told me he’d be making me CEO of our family’s conglomerate, Lazarev Global… Coincidentally, that was also the same night he told me he’d had a man drowned in the Gowanus Canal for skimming from a shipment.
That’s my life. Marble countertops and murder. Bespoke suits and shallow graves.
My father wants it like that. He’s made that much clear since the day I could walk. Handle things his way. Cold. Stone-faced. No emotion, no hesitation, no
