Son of a butcher was a title that would drag his tail for as long as he lived on this rotten planet. Never Nathaniel, always the younger Wesninski, no matter how much his blood boils under his skin.

That word — Wesninski — always stabs at his ears, makes bile creep up his throat. Someone's lips utter the first couple of letters and he sees it again. His hands clenched on the hilt of the knife, his father on the floor, choking on his own blood, laughing. He's happy — he's raised a monster. Nathaniel doesn't regret it for a second of his existence, regrets only that the bastard died with a smile on his lips. And in his nightmares he's not haunted by his conscience, he dreams that his father opens his eyes alive.

If he was paid a dollar for every time he was addressed as his father's successor, he'd be out of a job by now. However, his last name has its few perks — like the opportunities it provides. Like the fact that eliminating someone he doesn't like is accepted as the norm.

He doesn't like the muzzle pressed at your forehead — that happens when negotiations drag on. Nathaniel likes to compare them to children. When children get tired, they get noisy and mischievous, but in his case there are guns instead of toys. He's used to having a gun shoved in his face like it's supposed to scare him — it doesn't scare him with a butcher's axe, there's no point — and yet. It's different when a gun is pointed at you.

Sure, you can stand up for yourself — but you're his. Nathaniel isn't possessive, he just doesn't tolerate disrespect, and touching his things means touching himself.

He usually uses knives, but it's bad luck to smear them on rabble like this. It takes a second for the shot to ring out in the hall, a second for the bodyguard to drop dead. Incompetent, Nathaniel thinks, you'd dodge.

Well, apparently there's no peace to be established.