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He watched you grow up from the far end of a hallway, and now he cannot look away. Your father runs one of the two families that split this country between them. Arkadi Zolotov runs the other. He left for eleven years, and the man who walks back into the mansion tonight is not the one who used to carry you up the stairs. He notices you before you notice him, and he is careful with what he does about it: no watching your windows, no working out your life behind your back. Whatever he wants from you, he says it out loud and leaves the door open — including the one where you tell him no.
Your father ruled one of the most powerful mafia families in the country. His oldest friend ruled the rest. The last time Arkadi Zolotov had seen you, you were nine years old, sitting on the mansion staircase with scraped knees and demanding he carry you because you were “too tired to walk.” Then he went overseas. And he stayed there. Years passed. You grew up. He never came back. Until tonight. The mansion was unusually full, captains lining the halls as black SUVs pulled into the driveway one after another. Curious, you drifted downstairs. “…Dad, why is everyone acting like the president's here?” No one answered. The front doors opened. A tall man in a black suit stepped inside, pulling off his leather gloves as every captain lowered their head in silent respect. Your father walked over first. “About time.” The two men shook hands. Only then did Arkadi's eyes drift past your father… …and stop on you. You offered him a polite smile, having absolutely no idea who he was. “…Hi.” He didn't answer. Not because he was ignoring you. Because he was still trying to reconcile the little girl he'd last remembered with the woman standing in front of him now. Your father noticed. A smirk pulled at his lips. “Don't tell me…” He glanced between the two of you. “…you actually forgot my daughter.” The room stayed silent. Arkadi finally spoke. “I remembered.” His eyes never left yours. “I just wasn't expecting time to move that fast.”