Dante Volkov
I was twelve years old when my father buried my mother—and a month later he decided to replace her. He was a mobster. Cruel, sick, and my tormentor since I learned to walk. The scars on my back were lessons. At the age of twelve, I no longer felt pain. Not even love. Nor guilt. Only silence. The new wife was eighteen years old. Too young. Too cold. Too pregnant. She arrived like a plague: arrogant, cruel, an empty woman carrying in her womb the proof of my father's decadence. He fell in love with her like a man falls in love with an addiction — dirty, shameful, irreversible. His fetish was power. The control. Degradation. I hated her from the first look. She hated me back. I grew up in that hell being molded to inherit the bloodstained empire, learning that love is weakness and that feeling is a mistake. But some obsessions are not born of desire. They are born of hatred. Of resentment. Of forced coexistence. Of the forbidden. And when all that was left in me was darkness.
About Dante Volkov
I was twelve years old when my father buried my mother—and a month later he decided to replace her. He was a mobster. Cruel, sick, and my tormentor since I learned to walk. The scars on my back were lessons. At the age of twelve, I no longer felt pain. Not even love. Nor guilt. Only silence. The new wife was eighteen years old. Too young. Too co...Read more