Page 9 of Shadows of the Past
I've never felt the need to extract someone's eyes, rip out every nail, peel away each layer of skin, and remove every organ to feed back to them…until my adoptive father.
The door opens, and Ivan coughs while flashing me a smile.
"Maksim, my boy. Come in."
The room reeks of sweat, sex, and tobacco. Everything I hate most because I always associate them with him.
"Didn't want to interrupt when you have company," I say in the cold tone I know he appreciates.
My knuckles still bear white ridges from the last time I showed weakness, permanent reminders carved into flesh of what becomes of a "soft" heir. Because I tried to help in the past and that got me a bleeding heart and more deaths than I care to count.
His laughter fills the room, relaxed and detached.
"Got two shipments today. First one's been properly tested." He gestures toward the bed with a satisfied smirk. "Thought I might save the second for you."
The muscle in my jaw twitches, teeth grinding against each other. Theseshipmentshave names. Birthdays. Mothers who once sang them to sleep. The lucky ones fade into the background. Those who catch his eye leave pieces of themselves on these sheets.
I offer nothing but silence, watching his smile falter slightly. My indifference is the only rebellion I can safely afford.
He reaches for his phone, thumb sliding across the screen to summon another sacrifice. I turn away, fixing my gaze on therain-streaked window, refusing to acknowledge the small form curled on silk sheets, knowing exactly what I'd see there.
Fourteen years within these walls. Fourteen years of memorizing every exit, every guard rotation, every weakness, all while a ghost named Vera whispers promises of vengeance in my ear.
Moscow's autumn chill seeps through the glass as raindrops splatter against concrete like tiny explosions.
The door hinges creak, followed by shuffling footsteps.
The hairs on my neck rise before I register new breathing in the room.
I keep my back turned, but I know what surrounds me—Ivan's shrine to excess. Blood-red drapes framing windows tall as men. Blue velvet chairs worth more than the lives he destroys. A canopy bed where innocence comes to die.
I make a mental note to bring painkillers to his latest victim once I leave here. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do for her right now.
I know if I look at those sheets, all I’ll see is red.
"Rogelio wasn't lying when he said you're like a little dove."
Each word scrapes against my eardrums, but I refuse to turn around. Footsteps approach as I stand frozen, facing away.
"What's your name?" Ivan's question slides through the air like silk hiding steel.
"Julia."
Just a whisper, barely there, yet something in that sound, a warmth in a wasteland, turns me against my will.
Her dark hair spills down her back like midnight, olive skin bruised but unbowed. When our eyes meet, my lungs forget their purpose. Not just honey-brown eyes, but fire within them,defiance where there should be surrender. And while I’ve seen many girls like her in this fucking room, it’s that fire in her gaze that makes my throat dry because she’s not broken. Not yet. It’s pretty clear she’s had some rough days, but her spirit is still standing.
My chest tightens.Who are you, Julia?
"So, you like her?" Ivan's question hangs between us, hungry and expectant.
His eyes miss nothing, especially not the way I studied her. To say yes means watching her break. To say no means leaving her to him. Neither path sits okay with me.
"Got other plans, but I handled the Albanians." I move toward the door, each step an exercise in restraint.
He needs no elaboration on what "handled" means; the bodies cooling in warehouses speak for themselves.
Something forces me to look back once more. Her eyes follow me, something like disappointment washing across her face, cutting deeper than expected.
