Zack Manches
My chest rose and fell in heavy waves as I let go of the dumbbell, each breath dragging through me like fire. Sweat trickled down my temples, running into the corners of my jaw and soaking the collar of my shirt until it clung to my torso.
I sat on the edge of the bench, elbows resting on my knees, hands hanging loose as if the dumbbells had stolen the strength from my fingers. My muscles trembled under the sheen of sweat, my forearms still tight from the last brutal set.
I reached for my bottle and downed the water in it. I tipped my head back, eyes closing, letting the water cool my insides. The pounding in my ears fade, savoring the sharp edge of exhaustion like victory.
A knock sounded on the door, disrupting my peace.
"Who is it?" I called out in annoyance.
"Sir, Mr Manches calls for you." a voice replied.
It was probably one of the servants. Being one of the biggest Mafia gangs in the city, we had a lot of servants and bodyguards.
"I just finished my exercises." I stated
"Alright, I'll inform him."
I heard the bodyguard's receding footsteps, letting out a huge sigh, I got up from the bench and left the gym room.
I have to shower before seeing the biggest Mafia in town. I muttered to myself.
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I draped a towel around my waist and stood before the mirror, flexing my muscles. Water traced along my veiny hands and slid down my wet biceps, my black hair still damp and glistening, skin clean and fresh from the shower.
I glanced at my king-sized bed and saw the clothes my maid, Sylvia, set out for me for the meeting with my father. She laid out a pressed white dress shirt, with black trousers and a black belt.
After putting on the clothes, I wore the polished black loafers that were beside my bed. Taking another look at the mirror, I realized that I was formally dressed and immediately undid the first two buttons on my shirt, showing off my well-trained chest.
Feeling proud and rebellious, I wrenched my door open, stepped out, and headed for my dad's chamber, each step echoing with dread.
Two bodyguards stood at the door of my father's chamber, their faces stiff and filled with all seriousness. Upon my arrival, they pushed open his doors for me and let me in.
His chamber was dim, the curtains drawn tight. Bookshelves loomed on every wall, their rows of old books casting long shadows. A single desk sat in the center, its surface bare except for a closed file and a half-empty glass of whiskey. The air was still, heavy, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
My father stood beside the window, smoking a cigar, not acknowledging my presence at all or sparing me a glance.
"Father." I murmured.
"You're late." He turned and looked at me.
"Didn't know there was a schedule." I said cockily as I watched him sit behind his desk.
"There's always a schedule in this house. You just never cared enough to follow it."
"Or maybe I just didn't want to be like you."
"Careful, boy. That mouth of yours… it's the one thing you inherited from me." Father leaned back, his eyes narrowing.
"Guess I should say thank you."
"Save the sarcasm. You think you know everything, but you don't know what it takes to run this family…to survive."
"Maybe I don't want to survive your way."
"Then you won't survive at all." He countered with a cold smile. "Enough of this, I called you here for a reason."
"Okay." I waited patiently to hear what my father had to say.
"I wanted you to get involved in the family business but our recent conversation showed me otherwise." He said, squishing his cigarette butt on the ash tray.
"Dad, are you ever gonna let me into the family business?"
My father smirked faintly, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
"I was going to, but you're not ready yet. You don't want to see what I do, son."
"I'm not a child anymore—"
"You are." He bellowed "You just disagreed with the way I get things done."
"I…" I couldn't even defend myself.
"Getting all smart with me, you don't respect your old man anymore." Father scoffed and gulped down some whiskey.
"I can do it. I can prove to you that I'm worthy. I don't have to do it exactly the way you do it."
"Enough. Get Tyler."
"But I'm here, I could help."
"Don't disobey me, boy. Get Tyler. I've had enough disrespect for one day."
Tch. He always did this.
I stormed out of the room, fed up with being treated like some helpless kid. I'm grown now, old enough to make my own calls, yet he still looks at me like I'm destined to screw up every damn mission. Like I'm nothing more than a risk he has to manage.
I descended the staircase into the living room, and there he was—my elder brother, the golden boy himself. Tyler sat cross‑legged on the sofa, effortlessly poised, the daily newspaper spread open in his hands. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the easy perfection in his features, the kind that seemed to come naturally to him and only ever left me in its shadow.
Tch.
"Father calls for you." I said through my teeth.
"Is it something you can't handle?" he replied without lifting his head from the paper.
"Well, obviously. To him, I can't handle anything."
"You missed school today.."
"It doesn't matter, family comes first."
"Don't miss school again."
With that, Tyler got up from the sofa and headed up the stairs. All I could do was stare at him, he had dark hair with blue eyes and the perfect body of a bad boy. I just looked like a nerd…a wannabe bad boy.
Tch.
I didn't even bother following him up the stairs, cause there was every possibility of my "dad" kicking me out of the room. So, I lay on the couch and let sleep overcome me.
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