Suddenly, our door opened. I didn’t have to look to know it was our father, Stephen Silverton. Both Vincent and I stood up almost automatically, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye. Father looked pained, though he tried to hide it. He was always terrible at hiding stuff, especially with his face. He had the subtlety of a neon sign. “Father.” Both Vincent and I said in sync. We were used to rising in our father’s presence -he was the head of the Russian branch of the Silvertons, after all- but he would usually tell us to sit back down. But he didn’t. That was the first red flag that my mind processed. The second red flag came a heartbeat later. Father never came into our room personally. He would usually send an associate to come get us, or knock at our door and ask us to come out into the hallway. But he would never step foot in our room. Vincent must have also realized this, because his eyes flicked to me, and he raised an eyebrow. Almost as if to question what it could be. I gave the smallest shake of my head. I had no idea what Father could be coming into our room to talk to us about. Time seemed to slow, and Father sat down on Vincent’s bed. Third red flag. He never touched our stuff or sat on our furniture. He held his face in his hands and let out a heavy sigh. He raised his head, and I could see that his face seemed to have aged ten years, set and grim. “Volkov is dead.” He said, voice cracking at the name.
I feel like I need to share this because Im right now shaking at how good its coming along. For my future (and hopefully published!!) story series (or at least...a bunch of stories that are in the same universe.) Constructive criticism is always welcomed.
