Throne of Blood
Wait a fvcking second…
I already called him and gave him evidence that ye’re his boy, so if he does want ye, he’ll show up.
Rolan’s words roll in my head with crystal clarity.
My mouth hangs open as Mikhail rushes inside, holding a gun. He’s old, around his late fifties or early sixties, and yet, he’s still in shape, aside from the panting.
“Where is he…?” He tRosels off when his eyes meet mine.
I see it then, the thing I was too blind to see over the years—the resemblance. Though his hair is sprinkled with white strands, it’s the same color as mine. His angular jaw and the shape of his eyes…they’re the exact fvcking same as mine.
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