Page 102 of Shadows of Obsession

"I must admit, Denis's beating was convincing," he says as if reading my thoughts, and at this I turn toward him.

"I promise to try harder with you," I say, and the smile on my face could probably be described as psychotic.

"Seems there's some brain behind those muscles. I always thought Niko would figure it out, not you, though the alliance with that idiot Devin was probably my mistake. That moron only thought about blowing things up," he says, spitting with hatred.

I barely have time to raise my eyebrows at his pathetic display when Niko lunges at him with his fists. Lev grits his teeth as a sound that I'm sure is a rib breaking echoes in the space.

"Niko. That's enough," I say, but of course he doesn't stop. "NIKO!" I roar, knowing this shout will bring him back from the hole he's fallen into.

Niko breathes heavily, and I watch his shirt expand with each breath. It's quite a paradox - Niko in his dress pants, blueshirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, perfect haircut, and his hands bruised from the impact of his blows.

He turns and raises his foot for another blow that I'm sure turns Lev's spleen to mush.

"We took you into our family, you worthless piece of shit," he spits before backing away.

I know he needs to vent his rage, but I need Lev somewhat whole. At least partially.

"You know what I can't understand? Why? Clearly it wasn't financial motivation that made you betray us like a dog," I say, leaning against the table a few yards away.

Sweat drips down Lev's face, probably from the effort of not screaming from Niko's blows. When he raises his gaze, his eyes burn with fury and hatred, and I wonder what the hell we did to make him hate us so much? And how did I never see any of it?

"You really don't recognize who I am?" he asks, his tone suggesting he’d hoped I would.

"Not the slightest idea," I tell him, my face a mask of boredom.

I watch how my answer eats at him.

"My father was Bogdan Vasiliev."

It takes me exactly three seconds to place that name in my head, and then I can barely mask my shock when I make the connection, but my reaction doesn't escape him.

"Ah. Finally. Do you know how long I've waited to face you without having to hide? I wanted to kill you with my bare hands, but while you had your whole family and their name behind you, I only had my brain," he confesses, and I do nothing but stare at him.

Bogdan Vasiliev was the first person I killed, at age fourteen. An accountant who dared to steal money from my father and thought he'd receive some form of mercy.

I still remember his face when he called me a "monster" like my father, and I still see no resemblance between him and Lev.

"Your father, just like you, got what all traitors get," I snarl, and then my hand, holding the serrated knife, traces a line across his abdomen.

His shirt tears instantly and begins to turn red from the blood. Lev's screech is muffled, as if he's holding back from truly screaming.

"Why now?" I ask, and it's the only thing I don't understand. Now that I know why he wants revenge and was willing to work for us for years, something must have caught his attention to make him move right now.

"It's eating at you, isn't it?" he says and starts laughing.

"You son of a—"

Niko wants to jump at him again, but no one will have the privilege of making him scream except me.

I catch Niko by the shoulder, and I know he sees on my face that he needs to calm the hell down or we won't get answers from Lev. There’s something I'm missing, and this feeling gives me the sensation of a thousand ants crawling all over me.

"If you don't want to see your intestines looking like Michelin star borscht, I suggest you start talking," I say in an apathetic tone.

I can't shake the whirlwind in my chest telling me something isn't right. Lev is too calm. For a man hanging from chains, about to be tortured, he's far too peaceful.

My hand moves toward my phone to message Sergey and ask if everything's okay at home, but I see Lev watching me. It seems like he's waiting for me to do something.

"Nothing?" I ask, and I just see him trying to move in his chains. I know his muscles are screaming in pain, but wait until he sees how it feels in a few hours. When I notice he's silent, I approach him again with the same serrated knife which, although harder to use, remains among my favorites. It's the one I know will cause the most damage and pain when it enters flesh, and that's what I want for him. To feel every vein and tissue in his body being torn by the blade.

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