Zakhar

Chapter 1

Zakhar

Friday…

"You will return home and stay there until you are needed." I slid an envelope with photos across the table.

Gingerly he picked it up and peeked inside, his sallow complexion losing all its color. Kiev was sitting at his desk with red rimmed eyes. He looked unhealthy and stressed, in no shape to manage the business. I believed that if one could not control their simple actions, then they would not be able to control a multi-billion-dollar corporation.

"But brother, I should stay here to take care of this."

I slowly stood to my feet and straightened my tie. "This is not a request, it's an order."

"You can't be serious. I am your older brother, you can't order me around."

"I am your CEO who will be president in a few days. I can order you whenever and wherever," I countered. "A security team will escort you to the jet and see you home. Get some rest while you're there."

Picking up my jacket from the back of the armchair, I slipped into it. Kiev's eyes followed me as I walked out the door and shut it behind me. He was my older brother and yet he often acted recklessly, putting the family business in danger. Now it was up to me to rectify whatever situation we now were in.

Kiev's actions regarding his personal life were taking a toll on PetroElite, the petroleum division of the Mikhailov Group of Companies. The Dubai branch was his responsibility and now I must move here to oversee it. The Mikhailov men had no room for gallivanting, and mistresses, and bastard children. Yet that was what Kiev has done. Stock prices were plummeting due to this current scandal. It was the latest in a long list of failings on his part and this was where it would end.

I took the elevator to the top floor where the president's office was located. Upon entering my father's office, the smell of old cigar smoke in the carpet and drapes hit me. It was weird that after a couple of years such things remained the same. Two years ago, my father became ill and was now on his deathbed. He was over ninety years old and had done his fair share of life, and work. I must continue his legacy for the sake of the future generations.

Since it was left to me, I would not allow my older brother to take down the family fortune with him. Before this mess I was never interested in getting married, but now I could clearly see the need to bring an heir to continue our legacy, someone I could mold into the perfect son. It has always been my father's wish that I could not only take charge of the family business, but my own personal life. It was time. There was a younger brother who was only seventeen years old, not ready to take over. He was barely able to keep a straight head. His task was to do well in school and a be a good son. Then we would see what he was capable of.

My assistant prepared this office for my transition, which was a good move. Two bottles of my favorite whiskey were on the side cabinet, a photo of my father from when I was a child was on top of the glass top desk, along with my laptop. A photo of me receiving an award graced the walls facing the desk.

I pulled out the top right drawer of the desk and picked out an old brown leather diary. Opening it, I ran through the list of women's names whom I'd dated over the years. None of them appealed to me. Frustrated, I snapped it shut and dropped it back into the drawer.

The woman I needed should be of a special breed, one that can follow my orders, someone to take care of the family. She should be able to give me at least a man child to carry on my family line, that was her main purpose.

I stood up from my desk and walked to the window which overlooked the vast lawn surrounding the building. The gardener was trimming the edges and I watched him work for a few minutes, my mind preoccupied with the thought of my expected nuptials. This was something expected of all the males in the family. I had no delusions about love. Marriage was an arrangement … a deal. That's how it had always been, and I intended to follow our traditions if it was the last thing I did.

Someone knocked on my door, and I turned my head to see my assistant push his head through.

"Sir, your father's doctor is on the line."

I turned, made a few paces to my desk, and picked up the phone.

"Doctor Ralsky, how is he?"

"Mr. Mikhailov, I think you should return home."

At ninety-three years old, my father had worked hard to build our generational wealth. Maintaining the family wealth was not the only means of ensuring the family security, he was also strict about obeying our family traditions.

He spent most of his youth building the company, taking it from where our grandfather left it to him and bringing it into the 21st century. He started having children late and I felt that I am becoming just like my father. I knew that having children at forty-two years old was not ideal.

I remembered going off to college when my father was seventy-one years old. All through my childhood and youth my father worked and he taught me from a young age that working for the family was the most important thing.

There was no room for error when it came to my father. He raised four boys and one girl like soldiers. The youngest son would one day take over the family business, but for now it was decided I would do it. The eldest son died in a car accident when I was in college and Kiev was useless as far as I was concerned. Father must have seen this as well, because he chose me to lead, and I would be damned if I allowed anything or anyone to sully our family name.

My sister decided she wanted nothing to do with us – or rather, me – and was now living in some remote part of Europe. Although I would have liked her to be here with the family, she made her choice. If she was unable to abide by our traditions and laws, then so be it.

Now that our father was dying it was left up to me to keep our traditions alive. I should have married before my fortieth birthday, but that didn't happen. Now most of all I must do this before he passes away.

"I will be there in three days," I told the doctor.

"He doesn't have much time," the doctor relayed to me.

"Do your best to keep him alive."

The prognosis for my father was not good and the doctor told us to make his final arrangements. It was the old man's wish that I should marry before he dies, and I intend to do just that.

As soon as I hung up with the doctor, I called my personal assistant. He rushed to my office with anxiety, given the tone that I spoke to him in.

"Sir, you called for me?"

"You need to find me a wife before three days. Can you do that?"

"There is a dating agency with an excellent reputation, would you like me to sign you up?"

"You must do it quickly," I urged. "And I do not need socialites, actresses, or models … just use your common sense."