The rose had always been a symbol of beauty and romance. A blooming flower signified rebirth and youth and fresh beginnings. That had been the idea behind the companyās name, several generations ago. Within the last century, however, it had also taken up the meaning behind the color red. Soviet Russia had been a source of great worry for years, after all. The Reds had been the primary target of the West for so long, and that bold crimson flag was still an image of communism worldwide. Sometimes, certain ideals were as close to perfection as society could ever dream to accomplish, but things like this were always improperly managed and people were always abused.
Red Rose was a superb example of these abuses. The Demidov family had built its financial empire on the remains of poorly invested businesses for more than half a dozen generations. The founder had not been a particularly saintly individual, and each line of children that followed him only managed to tighten their hold on the sources of their fortunes.
Not even the vengeful witchery of a wronged ancestry could destroy the power that the Demidovs claimed over the people and its government.
Viktor Demidov, the last remaining Demidov heir, was a name not infrequently used in stock markets and business newspapers worldwide. His reputation was as shady as it was monumental. He was one of the wealthiest people in the worldācertainly in his motherlandāand his face was a rarity on television, in magazines, and even in person. He controlled his monetary masterpiece with an iron fist, dipping his secretive fingers into some of the most distant of details. He attending meetings via video conferencing, kept a thumb on administrators and shareholders via extensive documentation and reliable personal aids. He released statements and made demands much the same way.
But what of the man behind the mogul?
There wasnāt one. It was as simple as that. Or rather, there no longer remained much of one. Viktor hid himself behind a list of deformities and defects. The world need only know that he hadā¦ issues. No one need know that his body was running away from him. No one need know that flesh hard grown thick and hard and lost all of its hair, fine and coarse. No one need guess that his skeletal structure had suffered traumatic alterations and his mind had fallen into something beastly and barely manageable.
Japan was not too terribly unlike Russia, Viktor had found. Social classes and groups were very clearly defined, streets were far too busy, and the modernization of business was everything. Of course, this nation had mastered that perhaps more cleverly than Mr. Demidovās land. The management of the Red Rose branch centered in Osaka had taken every precaution necessary to ensure Viktorās comfort when he arrived. The tour of the city had been both interesting and pleasantly short. The building was pristine. The staff was polite and overly humble, as was expected of the people here. Why, they had even promised him a woman for his every need while here in their fine economic capital. Coffee? Meeting log? Vodka? Unobtrusive distance? Street information? Insider tidbits about the 7th floor? Yes, please.
Viktor was a beast of a man, no matter how well he disguised his abnormalities. His dark skull was smooth, his eyes were small and set deeply in his sockets, his brow was heavy and low, and his jaw was frightfully wide. He towered over even his closest colleagues, and so he was a giant in this place. He tested the breadth of the seating here. He consumed everything worth putting in his mouth. He held delicious, bold cigars with so very little of his meaty, oversized hand. And when he spoke, his thick, rolling tenor reverberated from the walls of any room in which he sat.