Chapter 5
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Maksim
I stare at the body of the eight-year-old lying in the grass, eyes open but vacant.
We're about three hundred yards from the house, right where the small woods begin.
This is the third child we've found like this.
The bruising around his neck tells its own story—strangulation marks standing out against pale skin.
Even in a house where violence is as common as breathing, this method stands out.
Too clean, too bloodless for the monsters who live here.
Someone new hunts among us. The first two times, I blamed Ivan, figuring he'd lost control in a moment of rage. But when he heard about this morning's discovery, he nearly exploded with fury over losing money on a boy destined for a client in Hong Kong.
My "cousin" Aleksandr made my suspect list too, but his signature method involves knives; cutting is his language of choice.
"How'd they avoid the cameras?" The voice of Akim, my right hand, pulls me from my thoughts.
Another problem. How did they bypass security? How did they access the keys?
"I don't know, but we clearly have a new monster to track. Tell Zoya to be careful when she leaves at night."
Akim nods, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I'll bury him with the other two tonight. Oh, Max, the Mexicans delivered a special order. Ivan already claimed one."
Perfect. Just what we need . The Mexicans always send girls barely legal, recruited through financial desperation or simple wrong-place-wrong-time misfortune.
I run toward the house, fists clenched tight enough to grind wheat between my knuckles. His voice and moans reach me before I even enter, bile rising in my throat.
Soon, Maksim. Soon.
Soon he'll be dead. Soon I can dismantle the horror he created and takes such pride in.
Crying filters through the door, and I know whoever's with him isn't there willingly. But I've learned my lesson about intervention.
Last time I took initiative, Vera didn't survive. Though many would prefer death to this torture, they need to endure. We'll escape this place. All of us.
Nothing pleases him more than witnessing agony on his victims' faces. I'm convinced it's his actual food source; the suffering and screams of every soul he tortures fuels him.
Another cry echoes through the door, and I have to lock my muscles in place. I can't go in. It would make things worse. But a voice whispers in my head: Could it possibly get worse?
I force myself to stand here whenever he brings someone new. My way of cleansing my conscience. I can't save them now, but I can suffer alongside them. Each scream, each sob reminds me of all the nights this monster came to my room to show me what a "real man" does.
I close my eyes and breathe. The sounds from the room grow muffled, and I know he's probably finished. Eight minutes flat. That's how long it takes him to tear out a soul and make it bleed.
I've never felt the need to extract someone's eyes, rip out every nail, peel away each layer of skin, and remove every organ to feed back to them…until my adoptive father.
The door opens, and Ivan coughs while flashing me a smile.
"Maksim, my boy. Come in."
The room reeks of sweat, sex, and tobacco. Everything I hate most because I always associate them with him.
"Didn't want to interrupt when you have company," I say in the cold tone I know he appreciates.
My knuckles still bear white ridges from the last time I showed weakness, permanent reminders carved into flesh of what becomes of a "soft" heir. Because I tried to help in the past and that got me a bleeding heart and more deaths than I care to count.
His laughter fills the room, relaxed and detached.
"Got two shipments today. First one's been properly tested." He gestures toward the bed with a satisfied smirk. "Thought I might save the second for you."
The muscle in my jaw twitches, teeth grinding against each other. These shipments have names. Birthdays. Mothers who once sang them to sleep. The lucky ones fade into the background. Those who catch his eye leave pieces of themselves on these sheets.
I offer nothing but silence, watching his smile falter slightly. My indifference is the only rebellion I can safely afford.
He reaches for his phone, thumb sliding across the screen to summon another sacrifice. I turn away, fixing my gaze on the rain-streaked window, refusing to acknowledge the small form curled on silk sheets, knowing exactly what I'd see there.
Fourteen years within these walls. Fourteen years of memorizing every exit, every guard rotation, every weakness, all while a ghost named Vera whispers promises of vengeance in my ear.
Moscow's autumn chill seeps through the glass as raindrops splatter against concrete like tiny explosions.
The door hinges creak, followed by shuffling footsteps.
The hairs on my neck rise before I register new breathing in the room.
I keep my back turned, but I know what surrounds me—Ivan's shrine to excess. Blood-red drapes framing windows tall as men. Blue velvet chairs worth more than the lives he destroys. A canopy bed where innocence comes to die.
I make a mental note to bring painkillers to his latest victim once I leave here. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do for her right now.
I know if I look at those sheets, all I’ll see is red.
"Rogelio wasn't lying when he said you're like a little dove."
Each word scrapes against my eardrums, but I refuse to turn around. Footsteps approach as I stand frozen, facing away.
"What's your name?" Ivan's question slides through the air like silk hiding steel.
"Julia."
Just a whisper, barely there, yet something in that sound, a warmth in a wasteland, turns me against my will.
Her dark hair spills down her back like midnight, olive skin bruised but unbowed.
When our eyes meet, my lungs forget their purpose.
Not just honey-brown eyes, but fire within them, defiance where there should be surrender.
And while I’ve seen many girls like her in this fucking room, it’s that fire in her gaze that makes my throat dry because she’s not broken.
Not yet. It’s pretty clear she’s had some rough days, but her spirit is still standing.
My chest tightens. Who are you, Julia?
"So, you like her?" Ivan's question hangs between us, hungry and expectant.
His eyes miss nothing, especially not the way I studied her. To say yes means watching her break. To say no means leaving her to him. Neither path sits okay with me.
"Got other plans, but I handled the Albanians." I move toward the door, each step an exercise in restraint.
He needs no elaboration on what "handled" means; the bodies cooling in warehouses speak for themselves.
Something forces me to look back once more. Her eyes follow me, something like disappointment washing across her face, cutting deeper than expected.
For a heartbeat, I sense chamomile in the air and my steps falter. This was Vera’s scent, and I know I’m imagining this, but her memory is fading with each passing day, so these moments where something triggers a visual of her make my stupid heart beat faster.
Five years gone, Maksim. This isn't her. THIS ISN'T VERA.
Yet something about this girl might destroy everything I've built.
If you knew what I’d done, what I’d allowed, you’d be disgusted, Julia.
I don’t hear what Ivan says, because I walk out the door and lean against the wall.
My forehead touches the cold wall, and I try to count my breaths. GET AWAY! GO FARTHER AWAY!
Standing by the door, I know I should move, but I’m stuck. My muscles are frozen. It’s because, deep down, I know if I don't turn back now the sparkle in her eyes will be gone next time.
Something inside me says that even though I could sleep with all those pleading eyes on me and do nothing about it, Julia’s gaze will haunt me.
And now I’ve done what I swore I’d never do again. I cared for someone and walked back into the room where I sealed her fate.
Julia stands with her eyes on the ground while Ivan analyzes her from a couch.
“Ah, changed your mind?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone.
Something that makes me weigh my words even more carefully.
“Aren't you the one who always tells me to diversify my portfolio?” My words are bitter on my lips, but I know that's what he wants to hear. He wants to know that I’ll use her. He wants to hear that I’ll degrade her. To him, that's what it means to be a man.
“I'm glad to see you're finally listening.” This time, I catch the pride in his voice. “She’s all yours, son,” he says and lights up one of those cigars that leave a heavy, earthy smell in the room.
The feeling of nausea returns when he calls me son , but commenting on it might mean someone else won’t live to see tomorrow.
Julia has a slight tremble in her body as I approach her. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and faded jeans. As I get closer, I smell something sweet, like honey.
She has some recent bruises on her face. Who knows where the hell she was picked up and dragged here from?
I lift her chin with a finger and suppress the shiver that wants to run through my whole body at this simple touch.
Who is this girl? And why don't I feel shivers of disgust where my finger meets her skin?
Her mouth opens slightly, and I see a breath get stuck in her lungs.
“Come with me.” That’s all I say, and I curse myself for everything she’ll have to endure.
Because although I see relief in her eyes, she has no idea that she became the main target of every monster in this house the moment I marked her as mine.