In the centre of Manhattan, in the heart of NYC, there stands a man overlooking the magnificent, sweeping skyline. A calm, easy smile plays across his lips. It's all his, money, fame, power… or is it? A hole lies at the centre of his heart, a gaping rent that yearns to be filled
It is not something that any material gain can fulfil. It is something deeper, a simple primal want.
He turns and moves into his office from his balcony, he shuts the glass door, shunning the noise of the streets below. His personal assistant awaits him with a folder. He takes it from her silently, "Thank you, Olivia," he says to her with a pleasant smile. He sits down behind his desk and opens it.
More appointments, his ever increasingly busy schedule causes him to sigh. Why can't this tide of vapid drudgery end? He asks himself sullenly. He knows the answer, he has allowed it. One of the less desirable perks of his occupation is the need to be seen in social circles, a need beyond his control, something that he despises, and so do the people with whim he must mingle. With fake smiles and ingenuine sompanionship. He is the captain of his own destiny, yet it seems he must bow to an Admiral of fate.
The phone on his desk rings and he reaches for it, "Yes?"
"Sorry to disturb you Mr Markov, but you have an interview now with an Ms Avacyn Bradbury, of Time Magazine."
"Thanks, Olivia, send her in." Markov sighs, here we go again, he thinks with disdain. Journalists and reporters are an ever present thorn in his side, always looking to show him up for faults, twisting his words for their own selfish ends. They only seek to sell product, doesn't matter how much the truth get butchered and warped.
The varnished pine wood doors at the end of the long office open and close with a gentle thump and Markov sees his latest interviewer as she walks towards his desk.
She's dressed in a simple knee-length skirt with tights and moderate high-heels. She has a white blouse and black blazer, with a shoulder bag. Her soft, fair skin almost matches the pale gold hair that flows down her shoulders like sunbeams on a bright summers days. Her face is serious, Markov senses some nervousness by her slightly stiff movements.
Markov rises from his chair and offers his hand to her.
She smiles sweetly and takes it, "Avacyn Bradbury, Time Magazine."
Markov smiles in return, "Sorin Markov, President and Ceo of Markov Industries. Please take a seat?" She does so. "Can I offer you a beverage?"
"Just water, thank you." Sorin wanders to his drinks cabinet, lines up a regular drinking glass and whiskey tumbler. Her drops some ice into both. He meanders back over hands the glass to his interviewer and retrns to his seat. Avacyn has flipped out an IPad.
"Okay, the media has not taken well to your ligitimisation program with the Markov family, many would like to see you and many of your relatives behind bars, what do you say to that?" Avacyn asks quite formally.
"I began it to prevent my family from extinguishing itself, the path we walked only lead to the prison cell. So when my father, Edgar, passed away and the 'assets' passed to me, I began a to investigate alternative routes for the family business. Crime may pay short-term but in the end someone will dig up the dirt that will spell the death of the family. Legitimate business, however, is more long-term and stable. I'm working towards making the Markovs a name that people will be inspired by, not fear and cower at the mention of it," Sorin responds.
"Oookay," she says as she scribbles down what he said and Sorin has to prevent his eyes from wandering up and down the reporter. "Rumours speak of deaththreats and potential hits being put out on your head, is that true?"
"Yes, many of my father's former associates have not taken my shift well, however, an attempted assassination wouldn't be in their best interests."
Avacyn raises an eyebrow, "Why is that?"
"I have arranged for delicate information to be released upon my death, lists of names, addresses and computer passwords. Enough to provide the authorities to make the nessecary arrests."
"Do they know this?"
"I'm still walking this Earth, aren't I?" Sorin returns with a smile, one that Avacyn shares. Sorin feels his heart quicken, everso slightly.
"Finally, what do the other members of your family think about this shift in interests?"
"Most rejected it, they are behind bars. The others are currently in my employ and are enjoying not having to sleep with an eye open."
Avacyn scrunches her brow and ceases her scribbling, "Slightly ruthless, don't you think...?"
"I know, I wish there was anoher way but I could sway them. I would have preferred to have kept them by my side..." Sorin feels hie eyes start to water. Avacyn buries head back into her note taking. Sorin pulls out a hankerchief and drys the tears.
Avacyn looks up again with a warm smile, saying, "Thank you Mr Markov, I have everything I need, it's been a pleasure, thsnk you."
"The pleasure is all mine Ms Bradbury," He says as he rises from his chair, circles his desk and pushes Avacyn's chair back in. He escorts her to the door and shows her out. "I look forward to reading the article." She smiles appreciatively as she exits.
Sorins turn around and grins. That went well, he reflects. Maybe, just maybe, I might get some good press. That would be nice, yes, very nive."