He stepped aside to let Ilya into the room. He waited for Ilya to remove his wool overcoat, and then the inspection began. His father’s eyes raked over him while Ilya stood there, like a trembling child who was awaiting punishment. There was nothing—nothing—wrong with Ilya’s tuxedo. It was classic black, perfectly tailored, and his bowtie was impeccable. He had even given himself the closest shave he’d had in years. But his father would find something.
I will kill his father
