Page 13 of Beneath the Light of the Moon
Thatmade him feel more like his father, his skin stretched tight over a dead man’s cursed bones. So, he stood back, letting his men handle it. What fun would his job be if he didn’t take advantage of the perks?
Another man’s fist connected with Ivan’s nose. Cartilage broke, unable to withstand the force applied in the men’s relentless assault.
To anyone else, this was a moment of insanity as the shell of Mikko’s body slipped over the metaphorical edge of the deep end. It didn’t matter. He was a husk of a person going through the motions. Times like this were the only pardon; the only time he felt alive. After all, Alek had made sure he’d been desensitized to it long ago.
A copper tang permeated the air, its sharpness undeniable. Familiar, yet sickening.
Blood sprayed forth from Ivan’s injuries, Mikko’s knuckles tightening at his sides as he watched his men’s fists cut easily through the fragile flesh of his face. The crimson splattered onto every surface close enough: Ivan’s clothes, the trained assailants arms and hands glimmering in gore, and fittingly enough, the printed article Cristiano had thrown earlier. It was a macabre painting detailing the atonement occurring.
Cristiano was nothing but another silent watcher, steadfast inall the usual business matters they found themselves a part of. He understood the agony living beneath Mikko’s facade—understood it needed to be satiated.
Ivan’s groans filled the air as both men observed. If they wouldn’t get money from him, they’d make sure hewouldgive something else in return.
An offering.
While life loved its pain, it also craved sacrifice.
Losing track of time, completely consumed by the act of his own men erasing every single piece of his father, Mikko didn’t tell them to stop until their hands were tired and aching and split open.
Beneath it all, Ivan was covered in his own viscera. Alive and breathing, but probably wishing he wasn’t. More of it was smeared across the skin of the men surrounding him, their clothes speckled with crimson.
The hate and rejection that had created Mikko fueled him now and released a monster beyond saving.
Besides, Mikko didn’t want salvation; he wanted justice.
Or even a simple life to call his own…
Butthiswas what he’d been raised to do, groomed to inherit.
In this world, being a slave to anything or anyone was a dangerous game, so Mikko chose wisely. After his father, he refused to let anyone reign over him, only letting one thing have authoritative power over him.
Blood.
It was the ultimate compensation—the ultimate control.
And it was the only thing he would ever bow his head to.
5
Sleuthing
Mikko
Mikko’s office overlooked the cityscape opening up before his window, providing the ultimate view of the skyline.
And heloathedit.
Being in that office, hisfather’soffice, was stifling and confining and inescapable. He had no idea how Alek had done it for so long. If Mikko could avoid these four walls, he would, but today that proved to be difficult. The tasks with his name marked beside them piled up, refusing to let him go.
With an internal groan, Mikko wished the windows opened this high up so he could throw himself out.
His office was spacious, situated in the corner of the building which maximized the window space. The seams between each pane of glass were nearly undetectable. Whoever had designed it, made sure to erase the line keeping him in and the elements out. On the surface, it was beautiful, but beneath it all, this place held memories.
Long nights sequestered on the couch while his father took phone callafter phone call. Early mornings resulting in red welts on the backs of his hands after Alek had repeatedly smacked them with each task Mikko did wrong…
His eyes slid to the wet bar lining one wall.
A sip of vodka wouldn’t hurt,he thought momentarily before shaking it off.
