Still, the idea of being constantly watched made his skin crawl. Great. I can't even sulk in peace without feeling like I'm in some creepy reality TV show. He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair as he stared out at the endless expanse of snow.
But then his sarcastic streak kicked in, his frustration giving way to humor. "Maybe I should start giving him a real show," Beom muttered with a smirk, imagining himself dancing provocatively in front of a hidden camera just to mess with Yaroslav. "Bet he'd choke on his wine if I started twerking on that pole."
The thought made him chuckle despite himself, but the humor was fleeting. His gaze shifted back to the wilderness, and a deeper sense of helplessness settled over him. No matter how much he joked or laughed, the reality was still the same. He was stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, with no way out.
The helicopter landed smoothly on the grounds of the Vyshnevsky family's second mansion, a sprawling estate surrounded by towering trees and high walls that seemed designed to keep both the world out and the family's secrets in. Yaroslav—or Sasha, as he used to be called—stepped out with the air of someone who belonged, his heavy coat swaying slightly as the wind from the helicopter blades whipped around him. His sharp blue eyes scanned the mansion before him, his expression unreadable save for the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Inside, the dining hall was already occupied. Maksim, the eldest of the Vyshnevsky brothers, sat at the head of the long table, his posture stiff, his expression colder than the Siberian winters. To his left sat Vanya, the second eldest, who appeared more neutral but nonetheless reserved, sipping from a glass of wine. At the far end, their father, Mikhail Vyshnevsky, a man whose presence alone demanded authority, sat quietly, his eyes sharp and calculating as he surveyed the room.
Yaroslav strode in with confidence, his boots clicking against the polished marble floor as his grin widened. He made his way to the table, pulling out a chair with deliberate ease before seating himself. The tension in the air was palpable, but Yaroslav acted as though he couldn't feel it—or worse, as though he relished it.
"To what do I owe this little gathering?" Yaroslav began, his voice smooth and laced with mock curiosity. He picked up the nearest utensil and began cutting into his food, his movements calm and methodical. "I assume there's no mission on the line. If there were, you'd have sent the message through proper channels. So?" He glanced up briefly, his gaze cutting through the room like a knife. "What's the occasion?"
Maksim's jaw tightened visibly, his grip on his knife almost white-knuckled as he stared at Yaroslav. The sight of his younger brother's smug demeanor was enough to set his teeth on edge. Every fiber of his being screamed to wipe that infuriating smile off Yaroslav's face. But Maksim forced himself to stay composed, at least outwardly.
"Our primary mansion," Maksim began, his voice low but laced with bitterness, "was blasted. By that agent."
Yaroslav paused briefly, his fork poised in midair, before he resumed cutting his food with an almost theatrical nonchalance. "And?" he said, his tone clipped, as though Maksim had merely stated that it was raining outside.
Maksim's eyes darkened further, his rage barely concealed beneath his stoic façade. He leaned forward slightly, his presence growing heavier. "And?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "That mansion was not just a building. It was the heart of our operations. Years of planning, resources, and legacy—gone in an instant. Do you have nothing to say about that, Yaroslav?"
Yaroslav finally lifted his gaze, meeting Maksim's furious glare with an expression that could only be described as boredom. He chewed slowly, deliberately, as if to stretch out the moment, before swallowing and setting down his utensils. "Ah, I see," he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "So this is about me. Again."
Maksim's fist slammed against the table, the sound echoing throughout the hall. Vanya flinched slightly, his wine glass rattling, but he quickly steadied it. Their father, Mikhail, remained still, his cold gaze shifting between his sons like a predator watching prey.
"Don't twist this into something it's not!" Maksim barked, his voice cracking with fury. "This isn't about you—it's about the family! About what we've lost because you were too busy playing your games, dragging the Vyshnevsky name into your mess!"
Yaroslav leaned back in his chair, his smirk never faltering. "Oh, Maksim," he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "Always so quick to blame me for everything. Tell me, what exactly would you have done differently? Gone out there yourself and caught the agent? Or maybe you would've given them a friendly tour of the place before handing over all our secrets?"
"You arrogant bastard!" Maksim growled, rising to his feet. His eyes burned with hatred, his rage barely contained. "You think you're untouchable because Father favors you. But you're nothing more than a reckless, self-serving child who doesn't deserve the Vyshnevsky name!"
Yaroslav's smirk widened, his calm demeanor almost taunting. "Oh, Maksim, your jealousy is showing," he said, his voice light but cutting. "It's not a good look for someone who claims to care so much about the family's legacy."
The tension in the dining hall grew heavier with every passing second, like a storm about to unleash its fury. Maksim sat seething, his fists clenched, the veins on his neck taut as his younger brother, Yaroslav, continued to eat with maddening nonchalance. Yaroslav's smirk, the epitome of arrogance, only fueled Maksim's rage further.
"Do you think this is a game?" Maksim snarled, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "Do you even care about what's happening to this family? About the sacrifices we've made, about what you have cost us?"
Yaroslav didn't even glance up from his plate. Instead, he lazily forked a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth, chewing deliberately before replying, "Oh, Maksim, you're so dramatic. It's honestly exhausting." He finally raised his piercing blue eyes to meet Maksim's. "Maybe if you spent less time throwing tantrums and more time being useful, we wouldn't be in this mess."
Maksim snapped.
In a flash, his hand darted to the table, grabbing a steak knife. His chair screeched as he stood abruptly, rage propelling him forward as he hurled the knife straight at Yaroslav with all the force of his hatred. Time seemed to slow as the blade spun through the air, cutting a deadly path toward its target.
Yaroslav's smirk vanished, replaced by sharp focus. In an almost lazy motion, his hand shot up and caught the knife mere inches from his face, the blade gleaming dangerously in his grasp. The room fell into stunned silence.
Vanya, who had been quietly observing the exchange, leapt to his feet, his glass of wine toppling and shattering on the floor. "Enough!" he roared, his usually calm voice booming through the room. He rushed to stand between his brothers, his arms outstretched as though physically holding them apart.
"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Vanya shouted, his hazel eyes flicking between Maksim and Yaroslav. "Are you trying to kill each other? Is that what this family has come to?"
Maksim was shaking, his face red with fury. "He—he's a disgrace!" he spat, pointing a trembling finger at Yaroslav. "Father might coddle him, but he's a liability! He thinks he's untouchable, that nothing can touch him, but one day—"
"One day what?" Yaroslav interrupted, rising slowly from his chair. His smirk returned, but this time there was something colder, sharper in his eyes. He turned the knife in his hand, inspecting it before casually setting it down on the table. "You'll finally grow the spine to do more than throw cutlery? Please, Maksim, spare me the dramatics. You're embarrassing yourself."
"Enough!" Vanya barked again, stepping closer to Maksim. "This is not how we solve anything. Sit down. Both of you."
Maksim glared at Vanya, then at Yaroslav, his chest heaving as he struggled to contain his anger. Finally, with a frustrated growl, he shoved his chair back into place and sat down, crossing his arms tightly. His glare never left Yaroslav.
Yaroslav, for his part, seemed utterly unbothered. He leaned back in his chair, his expression once again composed, though his eyes glinted with amusement. "You know, Maksim," he said, his tone light but cutting, "if you spent half as much energy managing your emotions as you do hating me, you might actually accomplish something worthwhile."
Maksim's jaw tightened, but Vanya's sharp glare silenced any retort. Vanya turned back to Yaroslav, his expression stern. "And you," he said, pointing a finger at him. "Stop provoking him. You know exactly what you're doing, and it's not helping anyone."
Yaroslav raised his hands in mock surrender, a smug grin tugging at his lips. "Fine, fine. I'll behave—for now."
Vanya exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sank back into his seat. "This family is already on thin ice," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "The last thing we need is the two of you tearing each other apart."
Mikhail, who had remained silent throughout the entire ordeal, finally spoke. His voice was low and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade. "If you two are done, perhaps we can focus on matters that actually require our attention."
Both Maksim and Yaroslav stiffened slightly under their father's gaze, though the hatred between them lingered in the air, thick and suffocating.
Yaroslav, sensing Maksim's barely contained hatred, glanced up briefly and raised his glass in a mock toast. "To family," he said with a grin, his voice dripping with irony. "May we always… stick together."
The tension that had briefly eased in the dining hall surged back like a tidal wave as Maksim's voice cut through the silence. His words were laced with venom, sharp enough to slice through the air.
"Yaroslav," Maksim began, his tone icy yet calculated, "why is that agent still alive?"
Yaroslav, midway through cutting his steak, froze for a moment. His knife hovered above the plate, the scrape of metal against porcelain stopping abruptly. His expression didn't change—calm, unreadable—but there was a distinct pause in his movements that didn't go unnoticed.
Across the table, Mikhail Vyshnevsky, their father, raised his head, his steely gaze fixed on Yaroslav. The weight of his voice was commanding as he said, "I thought you had eliminated him, Yaroslav."
Yaroslav didn't respond immediately. He placed his knife down with deliberate care and took a sip of his wine, his face a mask of composed indifference. Before he could speak, Maksim pounced, his smirk growing into something cruel.
"Oh, of course, he wouldn't," Maksim sneered, leaning forward slightly as if relishing the moment. "He resembles his first love, Alexei. So naturally, dear Yaroslav is finding it hard to kill him."