Page 77 of Sadistic

He leaves me with that thought, and I consider his words while cleaning the blood from under my fingernails.

My parents' marriage has always fascinated me—the Bratva prince and the Irish mafia princess slash designer, violence and beauty intertwined.

They've made it work through sheer force of will and, apparently, effort.

"Mikhail has updates on the boyfriend," my father calls from the doorway.

Right. Njal.

Another problem to solve before dinner.

I find Mikhail in the office adjoining the warehouse, multiple screens showing various feeds and reports.

He looks up as I enter, already pulling together the relevant information.

"We found his car," he says without waiting for me to say a word."Abandoned at a rest stop off I-10, heading west."

"How long?"

"At least twelve hours. Maybe more." He pulls up photos on his tablet. "But that's not the interesting part."

The images show Njal's apartment—or what's left of it.

The walls are covered in photos of Revna.

Hundreds of them.

Some I recognize from my own surveillance, but others are new.

Recent.

Taken after I thought we'd secured her completely.

"He's been watching her too," I say quietly.

"For months, by the look of it. And there's this." Mikhail shows me another photo—a journal, pages covered in manic writing. "Our contact at the department got us copies. It's... concerning."

I flip through the scanned pages.

The writing starts coherent—declarations of love, plans to win her back, but it deteriorates quickly into paranoia, grandiose delusions, promises to "save her from the monster."

That monster would be me.

"Classic manic episode," Mikhail observes. "The family history supports it. His brother Bjorn?—"

"I know about Bjorn." I hand back the tablet. "Do we have any leads on where he went?"

"West is all we know. Could be running. Could be planning something."

"Double the security on Revna. And her sister. We can’t be too safe right now."

"Already done. We have teams on both at all times."

"Good." I check my watch. Three hours until dinner. "Anything else?"

"Your mother called. Something about flowers for the wedding. She says if you don't call her back, she's choosing everything herself and sending you the bill."

"Let her. She has better taste than I do anyway."

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