Page 83 of Shadows of Obsession

"Julia will take care of cleaning up after you. Nobody will know it was you, but I need your fingerprint for authentication, and more importantly, to modify the correct code lines so someone won't have that device active anymore."

God, it's annoying how similar their voices are. If it weren't for the fact that Max's voice is raspier, like someone who smokes heavily, I could never distinguish them.

"Who is this person and why do they have to die?" I ask because I'm not naive.

ErestonLabs’ clientele are fairly elite people with terminal cases, so this person will die anyway. I'll just be the one signing their death sentence.

I don't know how, but deep down I know this man has his reasons. The problem is I still have a trace of lucidity, and I can't deactivate that device until I at least find out why he wants them dead.

If I had felt for a moment that Max wanted to kill an innocent person, I would have told him to go to hell. I've made many bad decisions in my life, but this is where I draw the line. If he wants to kill me, there's nothing I can do. I can't have this on my conscience too.

"Someone who should have been in hell for many years already, but apparently even Satan doesn't want to breathe his air," he says, and I see a vein in his neck tensing and his fists clenching.

"I need more than that."

At that moment I see his demon baring its fangs as he throws a keyboard against the wall, aggressively stalking toward me. His hand grips my throat, and I have to repeat in my head "Not Roman, Not Roman" because I know my subconscious will store these images and project them back to me later.

"I don't think I made myself clear, Luna. This isn't a request. You will modify those code lines even if it has to be with a gun shoved down your throat. Clear?" he declares, and the fury he emanates is palpable in the air.

"I won't kill someone until you tell me what they did," I manage to choke out, considering he's barely letting me breathe with his hand squeezing my throat.

"Maksim, what the hell are you doing?" shouts the woman, who I assume is Julia.

She moves to his side, putting a hand on his arm.

It's fascinating to watch the lava melting from his gaze. It's as if someone poured a bucket of ice water over him. The reaction is downright visceral.

The next moment, Max releases me and takes a few steps back.

"My adoptive father."

This is the answer he gives me, and although he's still angry at my refusal, I see a trace of humanity. I don't think he realizes he's showing it, but it's there, like a window in the corner of a room. I see its weak light somewhere in his gaze.

When he sees he still doesn't have an affirmative answer from me, he starts breathing heavily through his nose again and stalking toward me, but at that moment Julia intervenes between us and takes over the discussion.

"This man traffics people, Luna. And by people I mean five- to six-year-old girls who end up being sold to the most depraved minds. Boys who are beaten and starved until their entire soul breaks and they can be molded however they want."

Her words hit me worse than the car impact because, when I raise my gaze to Maksim, I realize how the man came to be his adoptive father.

It's all over his face. The abuse, violence, pain, screams heard by no one, and without meaning to, tears gather in my eyes. I try with all my willpower to pull them back, because although I don't know this man,I can see a gray-eyed, black-haired little boy beaten daily, crying every evening from hunger.

"I don't need…," he starts in a threatening tone.

"Why haven't you done it yourself?" is the question eating at me.

It's obvious this man knows how to handle a gun. It's pretty clear to anyone who sees him that he's no stranger to violence and, above all, he has a fucking army of men. If I looked out the window right now, I’d see soldiers patrolling with various weapons hanging around their necks.

I see him weighing his words and whether it's worth explaining to me. In the end I'm not a guest here, as he very clearly reminded me.

"That monster runs one of the largest multinational companies in Russia and Eastern Europe. He has branches in oil, gas, and weapons. If he dies, I'm his only heir," he says, and I see how much he hates that word.

Because being someone's heir means that person cares about you in some way, and if what I saw earlier on his face is even partially true, I understand why the word ‘heir’ causes him revulsion.

"But not if you kill him," I finish for him.

"I could do it and no one could prove it, but the old hyena isn't stupid. His will clearly states everything comes to me only if his death is natural."

I wonder what kind of world these people live in that they need to specify such things in a will.

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