Chapter 13
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Roman
The wind outside cuts into my face, but I feel nothing. I can't shake the expression on Luna’s face when I told her to keep quiet about what happened. She understood immediately what I meant, and that's exactly what's eating at me.
Someone put that understanding in her eyes, taught her that fear. And all I want is to find whoever did it and make them feel that same terror right down to their marrow. People think you can't die from fear - I've got ways to prove them wrong.
Then there's that kiss. Her lips are branded on mine like a burning memory. Never saw the point of kissing before, with other women. But with Luna? One taste feels like starvation.
I wasn't lying when I told her she'd be the one begging next time. Because there will be a next time - I'll make damn sure of it.
The warehouse door creaks open, Anton nodding toward our 'guest.' These facilities are built smartly - if cops ever come sniffing around, they'll find exactly what the paperwork shows: just supplies for our clubs and restaurants.
In the back, however, there's a trapdoor leading to a basement. The floor is so thick you could literally leave a corpse rotting down there and nobody would smell it. And we've tested that theory so we're prepared for any unforeseen circumstances.
The trapdoor only reads specific prints - mine, Niko's, and a select few soldiers I trust. In this business, trust has to be absolute.
Every man has his price, though. Even my most loyal guys, the ones who'd catch a bullet for me - they've got families. Push the right buttons, threaten the right people, and hearts win over loyalty. That's why the smart ones come to me first. I can fix anything if I know it's coming.
The warmth hits me first - just two bulbs casting yellow light down here. Suffocating.
"Please, it's not what you think. I never meant-" Tim's voice breaks as he thrashes in his chains, feet dangling above concrete.
I shrug off my jacket, toss it on a chair, and start unbuttoning my shirt against the heat. I see the exact moment his eyes catch the scar climbing up my neck - the one my suits usually hide. I want him to understand he's not dealing with CEO Borisov anymore. He's face-to-face with the Chicago pakhan, and tonight, I'm not feeling generous.
"Who wants the prototype?"
No point dancing around this. I heard what I heard, and I know what it means. How long he drags this out, how many lies he tells - that just buys him extra hours of pain. Because one thing's certain: he's not walking out of here alive.
“No one, I swear! I was drunk, it was stupid, just my idea,” he sobs.
His subconscious must know he's already dead, but he's still clinging to that last thread of hope, praying I'll buy this drunk-talk story.
My phone buzzes - Lev with the background check I ordered on Tim. Something about this guy's been off from the start. Reading Lev's message, I feel my demon start to laugh.
?
While taking some tools out of the cabinet, I try to figure out how long I'll need to extract all the information from him. By the way he's shaking and sobbing, I give him thirty minutes before he's telling me his first grade teacher's home address.
“Let me make this simple: how much you lie equals how much you hurt. Choose your next words carefully.” I turn to survey my tools.
This hammer's seen better days, but it'll do the job on his kneecap.
I test its weight, rotating my wrist. The moment he spots it, his face goes green - better hurry before he redecorates my floor.
His terror's obvious, but he's still weighing silence against speaking. That bothers me. Who's he more afraid of than me? I can't help but laugh - this fool doesn't get it. Whatever monster he's seen before? Learned everything from me. Without another word, I raise the hammer over his left knee. He tries to squirm away, but this isn't my first moving target.
First, I feel the hammer's tremor when it hits bone, and my hand flexes around it, eager for a replay. I hear Tim's scream flood the basement and finally feel the peace. I've always had this feeling of complete calm, absolute silence during an interrogation.
Some would say it's my psychopathic side escaping the chains I keep it in during the rest of the days, but I don't believe there are multiple sides.
Am I a psychopath? Probably.
I want to believe there would be situations where I wouldn't enjoy taking a life, and the fact that Victoria exists in my life shows that I'm still capable of caring for someone besides myself.
I don't know why I've never had this extreme feeling of protection toward Niko as I have for Victoria, but being a man in our world, I wouldn't have done him any favors keeping him under my wing. Our father took me to a forest at fourteen, with just one knife and three traitors trying to find their way to the highway. To return home, I had to find and kill them all.
“They wouldn't hesitate if they were in your position.”
Those were his words when he saw the uncertainty in me.
I didn't need encouragement or comfort because I felt nothing. I listened to stories from different soldiers close to my age who were haunted by their first kills, but it wasn't like that for me. It was like following a script where every step was anticipated.
"Please, he'll kill me if he finds out I told you anything."
His voice snaps me back. When I look up at Tim, his face is a mess of tears, lips quivering like a child's. Blood streams from his left leg - at least my aim was perfect.
“You seem confused about something: you're not walking out of here.” I turn back to my collection.
Maybe the Gerber hunting knife...interesting.
His sobbing mixes with a new smell. Of course he's pissed himself. Typical - a man brave enough to threaten a woman after some vodka turns out to be the type to soil himself when facing consequences.
“Who sent you and why?”
My look should tell him my patience is running thin.
“Don't know his name. He just called himself The Smert.”
His accent butchers the Russian, but I know that word too well. Death. Smert was one of the first words I learned.
“How did he reach you?” I ask, letting the hunting knife dance through my fingers.
"I received a phone call one day. I was told to provide a prototype in exchange for money," he answers softly.
I analyze him for a few seconds, trying to see if he's lying or not. It's obvious he couldn't steal the code directly from our system. Among other protections, we have cybersecurity, so I'm not worried. Still, why this interest in this monitoring product?
I approach him slowly and see him squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head in denial.
I love that moment when they finally get it - when they realize there's no way out. That surrender feeds something in me. I press the knife to his throat, steady.
“Why Luna?”
The question throws him - I can see it in his confused stare.
“Why Luna?” he parrots back, voice shaking.
Either he doesn't see how much that irritates me, or he's too scared to care, because he keeps talking.
“She designed the basic architecture for the monitoring system. Made the most sense. Plus he said to involve her too.”
“Hmm.” That's all I give him.
How did they know about Luna? It’s clear as day she was the real target, not this idiot in chains. Then I catch myself - second time tonight I'm obsessing over her safety.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge thoughts of my new employee, and focus back on Tim. He's got nothing else useful. His phone's already mine - I'll have everything I need in minutes. No reason to keep him breathing.
“What makes you so afraid of him?”
It's simple curiosity. If they just had a phone conversation, his stress doesn't seem justified.
"I rejected his calls one evening and he came to my apartment. I woke up with a knife to my throat, and he told me not to miss another call if I wanted to keep breathing," he tells me between sobs.
Normally, I would have shot him. Not out of kindness but practicality. Torturing a man involves blood, bodily fluids, and noise, and I'm damn tired tonight.
Normally, I wouldn't have pushed the hunting knife between his ribs, exactly where I know I won't hit a vital organ just because I want him to bleed slowly.
Normally, I wouldn't have spent the next two hours pulling out each fingernail until his screams became almost numb.
Normally, I wouldn't have seen green eyes every time a drop of blood hit the basement cement.