Chapter 4 Wicked Theatrics #2
“I wish I could say I’m surprised, but you’ve always had a knack for disappointing me.
Since I can’t be caught with your blood under my nails at my next client meeting, I brought some help with me.
Small mercies,” Mikko shrugged, hearing Cristiano cough out a laugh behind him, “for me, but certainly not for you.”
His men readied themselves at Mikko’s words, ready for his next signal, but for now, they waited. Stoic and trained like rogue soldiers, their menacing silhouettes were cut from the shadows themselves. To some, using manpower to accomplish his goals was weak, but not to him.
It was efficient.
And it keeps me from turning into my father completely.
Ivan’s perspiration dripped down his temple, his struggles and nerves visible on his glistening skin. The promise of suspense gave Mikko a feeling of authority.
“Father always warned me against those who became money hungry, although I suppose he should’ve taken his own advice,” Mikko broke the tense moment, ice coating every word. “And to think, I was going to let these transgressions slide…until your carelessness bled out onto the public.”
The chair squeaked as Ivan wiggled. He knew.
“Care to explain why journalists are gnawing on the clues you’re throwing at them like bones?”
Cristiano took that moment to throw a printed copy of the article Mikko found at Ivan.
More fidgeting like a goddamn rat.
He knew Ivan couldn’t tell him with the tape over his mouth, but he didn’t care. Mikko wanted to watch the man struggle. After a few more seconds of watching the man writhe under the light, Mikko looked at Cristiano, motioning for him to remove the tape.
And he did—harshly.
Mikko smiled at the noise erupting out of the bound man. Pain was the ultimate sovereignty, a steady constant throughout life no matter how hard one tried to avoid it. It was always there, its blistering kiss brushing across the fragile surface of one’s body—one’s heart.
“Persistence is as much a virtue as patience, son.” The words slithered across his skull, his father’s voice inciting the ever constant ache across the scarred flesh of his left hand. Memories from another time flared in the back of his mind.
Now is not the time.
Cristiano slipped into view before walking behind Ivan. Roughly, he grasped the man’s thinning hair, tugging his head back. “Enough screamin’, my boss has a question for ya.”
The men’s actions reinforced the discomfort Ivan was feeling, but he still spoke. “You know I don’t have the money.” A shaky inhale. “I need more time!”
“I have given you more time, and you’ve done nothing with it. Except rack up an even larger debt to me and draw unwanted attention. You know how much the paparazzi are frowned upon, Ivan.”
“And you know how they are, like wolves circling their prey.” Ivan’s cheeks reddened as he spoke, bruised skin mottled.
Mikko smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “Wolves are known for finding the weak link.”
“Your father was never like this,” Ivan spat, a small amount of blood tinged spittle flew out of his mouth, landing somewhere on his pants. “He realized he couldn’t command every piece of his city, but you…you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.”
Mikko’s will, which was already bending from the stress of the day, broke at those words. “You’re right, my father buried those he couldn’t command, Ivan.”
Ivan’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Mikko continued. “God, I’m glad my father isn’t here.
All this talk of him after he’s been dead for six years would inflate his already huge ego.
” Mikko paced the concrete floor in front of Ivan.
“While I knew change would be slow within this line of work, your ability to ass kiss this long is impressive.”
Red clouded Mikko’s vision, thoughts of the woman at the bar gone for now.
How many times did he have to tell people he didn’t want to do things the way his father did.
Little did they know, it was because it was his last form of rebellion.
A sickeningly sweet action he hoped made his father roll over in his grave.
Aloud, he said, “Though, if you’re so keen on it, I can ensure you can become his neighbor in short enough order.”
Behind him, Cristiano snorted before mumbling something sounding suspiciously like, “Same day delivery, even.”
Ivan paled slightly at the threat, but pushed on, “If speaking the truth paints me in the wrong light, then so be it. Your father would’ve understood; he knew what it took to run a business—”
“Ah yes, of course, because you know how to run a business so well.” The predicament Ivan found himself in showcased his own poor business endeavors all on their own.
“At least I’m loyal,” he panted. “The same can’t be said about the rest of you. You’re a watered down version of him; you’ll always be overshadowed by Alek no matter how hard you try, malen’kiy yagnenok.”
Little lamb.
The nickname made Mikko’s teeth grit together. “Last time I checked, you’re taped to a chair I gave you when I leased the place. You’re in a room I designed and built. You may think you own this building and everything in it, but I do.” A sharp grin spread across Mikko’s face. “And I own you.”
“Otvali.” Fuck off.
Cristiano stepped back, already sensing the direction of this conversation.
“Since you claim my father did such an outstanding job on running his business, you’ll already know how he handled situations like this,” Mikko drawled, stalking closer.
The light above him cast severe shadows on his body, showing every plane of hard muscle through his crisp button down. Mikko had spent hours honing his physique for moments like this. It’d become obsessive the way he routinely worked out.
And Ivan knew that, realization settling into his eyes. “I-I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Honestly, I think it’s overdue. My father did worse for far less. As his son, I would know.”
Silence.
“I wish I could say I’m surprised, but you always did run back to your master when times got tough.” Mikko enjoyed the way Ivan’s throat worked nervously. “And who is your master, Ivan?”
“You?” the man hurriedly muttered, hoping more ass kissing would save him.
“No,” Mikko tsked, “although, it should be, but that can be…corrected.”
“W-what do you mean? Then–who?”
“A dead man. One who left the stains of his sins all over this disgusting city. One who didn’t care about men like you despite his sweet words, so why stand by him now? Why stand by Alek who isn’t even here to see your weak submission?”
“He-he’s all I know.”
And for a second, Mikko could relate.
Hands clapped down on Ivan’s shoulders, the motion nearly knocking the wind out of him. Mikko’s clean skin clutched the soiled fabric of the man’s shirt, emotions spilling from his actions despite his hatred for such displays of sentiment.
“It’s sad that the man you chose to cling to couldn’t even remember which one of my hands he’d burned.”
His rough hold slipped away, wrinkles left in the fabric of Ivan’s shirt.
Straightening, Mikko stifled his inner emotions as he focused on the task before him. Inwardly, he longed to wipe the grime off his hands, but he suppressed that. “Last chance, Ivan. Care to wire a hundred thousand dollars to my account while also paying off those you attracted the attention of?”
Although Mikko expected it, it was still disappointing to be proven right when Ivan remained soundless. He had a faraway look in his eyes, his begging long since flushed out of his system.
Good, that makes this easier, Mikko thought darkly.
“No?” A cracking of Mikko’s knuckles. “Well, it’ll be a pleasure doing business with you, then.”
“Always hiding behind your men,” Ivan spat as Mikko signaled to those standing in shadow. “Can’t stand to torture me yourself? Hands too soft and pretty to—”
Thwack!
A fist cut off Ivan’s taunts, the interruption welcomed by Mikko as he slipped into a spot next to Cristiano standing along the edge of the small room.
As the rest of Mikko’s employees descended upon Ivan’s prone form, the words spoken pricked at his toughened exterior.
He’d never live up to his father’s legacy—infamy or otherwise.
Mikko wouldn’t want it any other way, but it still irked him.
Smack!
Another punch landed on the man’s jaw, the force of the motion almost sending him flying backward if not for another man already there, holding him in place.
Caught by his collar, Ivan was helpless to the onslaught of punches.
The metal chair scraped below him from the assault, its legs struggling to stay upright.
It was a gory orchestra, the men working in flawless tandem to deliver the retribution Mikko had grown to live by.
He might let people think what they want, but at the end of the day, they obeyed him whether they liked it or not. The weight was ineffable, but there was no turning back now. The horrid smacking of skin upon skin and wet splattering proved that.
As Ivan’s teeth clacked together audibly, Mikko found his solitude in the show of violence. Deep down, he knew it was a terrible act of justice, but it was better than the alternative.
Doing the punishments myself.
That made him feel more like his father, his skin stretched tight over a dead man’s cursed bones. So, he stood back, letting his men handle it. What fun would his job be if he didn’t take advantage of the perks?
Another man’s fist connected with Ivan’s nose. Cartilage broke, unable to withstand the force applied in the men’s relentless assault.
To anyone else, this was a moment of insanity as the shell of Mikko’s body slipped over the metaphorical edge of the deep end.
It didn’t matter. He was a husk of a person going through the motions.
Times like this were the only pardon; the only time he felt alive.
After all, Alek had made sure he’d been desensitized to it long ago.
A copper tang permeated the air, its sharpness undeniable. Familiar, yet sickening.
Blood sprayed forth from Ivan’s injuries, Mikko’s knuckles tightening at his sides as he watched his men’s fists cut easily through the fragile flesh of his face.
The crimson splattered onto every surface close enough: Ivan’s clothes, the trained assailants arms and hands glimmering in gore, and fittingly enough, the printed article Cristiano had thrown earlier.
It was a macabre painting detailing the atonement occurring.
Cristiano was nothing but another silent watcher, steadfast in all the usual business matters they found themselves a part of. He understood the agony living beneath Mikko’s facade—understood it needed to be satiated.
Ivan’s groans filled the air as both men observed. If they wouldn’t get money from him, they’d make sure he would give something else in return.
An offering.
While life loved its pain, it also craved sacrifice.
Losing track of time, completely consumed by the act of his own men erasing every single piece of his father, Mikko didn’t tell them to stop until their hands were tired and aching and split open.
Beneath it all, Ivan was covered in his own viscera. Alive and breathing, but probably wishing he wasn’t. More of it was smeared across the skin of the men surrounding him, their clothes speckled with crimson.
The hate and rejection that had created Mikko fueled him now and released a monster beyond saving.
Besides, Mikko didn’t want salvation; he wanted justice.
Or even a simple life to call his own…
But this was what he’d been raised to do, groomed to inherit.
In this world, being a slave to anything or anyone was a dangerous game, so Mikko chose wisely. After his father, he refused to let anyone reign over him, only letting one thing have authoritative power over him.
Blood.
It was the ultimate compensation—the ultimate control.
And it was the only thing he would ever bow his head to.