Page 104 of Dirty Game
A pause. Then: “You should see your son. Before Mikhail ruins what’s left of him.”
There’s a click, she disconnects, and a photo appears on my phone.
Dante, in a cheap hotel room, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
One eye swollen shut, lip split.
He’s sitting very straight, hands folded, like he’s been told not to move.
Sienna’s message blinks on my screen:
Mikhail gets angry when you interfere.
The world contracts, sound tunnels, and the only thing left is the rush of blood in my ears.
My vision is full of red.
I dig my nails into the chair, hard enough to leave a mark.
Rosalynn says something, but I can’t actually hear her words.
I stare at the photo until the phone goes dark.
Then…
Darkness.
When the red haze clears, I’m standing in the middle of my office with blood dripping off my knuckles and glass dust floating in the air like snow.
Every monitor is smashed.
The desk is flipped, drawers spilled across the floor.
There’s a Picasso of shattered screens and torn cables on the wall, and somewhere in the mix, the shape of my own fist.
I look down.
My hand’s a mess of open cuts, skin torn and swelling.
A cut on my cheek burns. I must’ve caught myself on the edge of something.
I wipe my hand on my shirt, stare at the chaos, and feel nothing but emptiness.
Like the violence was a placeholder for a feeling I can’t reach.
Fuck.
I leave the mess, walk down the hallway, past the kitchen where a bottle of whiskey trembles on the counter, past the dining room that’s still set for two, even though we never eat there.
At the end of the hall is a door nobody’s supposed to open.
Not security, not cleaners, not even Korrin or Cyrus.
I key in the code, then use my thumbprint.
It clicks open.
Inside, the temperature drops a few degrees.
