Page 64 of Destined for the Devil
“Come.”
He was somber and focused, all his movements sharp and quick. We took a small elevator to the third floor, and he unlocked an unmarked door at the end of the hallway. The entire time, he didn’t dare look at me, unnerving me with the secrecy.
We passed through a reception area and a few cubicles, all of it looking like it was stuck in the nineties. But then he unlocked another door, and the office behind it was nothing like the rest.
It was large, sleek, and meticulously designed. A long wooden desk stretched out in front of tall windows, flanked by leather armchairs. Off to the side was a small sitting area with a couch. Expensive art, an alcohol cart, built-in shelves, soft carpet, and gleaming hardwood floors. Clearly, this was wherehespent time.
He rushed to the desk, files flying in all directions as he looked for something. It was a bit messy with a stack of folders and notepads on one side and a bunch of blueprints all over the place.
Frustrated, he whirled around and pulled open a cabinet drawer near a wall, cursing under his breath as he ransacked his office.
Stunned into silence, I approached the desk with trepidation, wondering what fresh hell he was about to unleash on me. And then he found something—a manila envelope. He yanked it out of the drawer and ripped it open, trying to get at the contents like an animal.
Out came a single sheet of paper, and he fixed his gaze on the top of the page. But it brought him no peace. Slowly, he shut his eyes and letout a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"I didn't get your last name.” He leaned on the desk, not easing my anxiety with those words. “It just says Isla B. Why thefuckdidn't they give me your last name?!” he asked himself, but I was dying to find out what was in front of him.
I snatched the paper out of his hands and urgently scanned the contents. In bullet point form, it was a profile—my profile.Details about me and my past: where I lived, my parents' past address, that I’d studied at Columbia and when I dropped out, my high school, and the name of my former employer in New York. Even the lawyer handling my parents’ probate was on there. And at the bottom was a short paragraph:
One brother, three years older—deceased (cancer). Parents—deceased (car collision). Formerly in a three-year relationship with a Thomas A. Grant. No relationships since then, currently single. Arrived in Los Angeles on Sunday, June 12. No vehicle. No family or personal connections in Los Angeles were located.
Indeed, at the top it only saidIsla B.I looked up at Roman, my heart pounding, waiting for some kind of coherent explanation, but he still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“What the fuck is this?” I seethed, anger now tingling all of me. How did he get such personal details about me?!
But Roman didn’t say a word, he just paced behind the desk, jaw tight, hands on his hips, looking everywhere but at me. "Roman, what the fuck is this? Answer me!”
Finally, he stopped moving.
"When you...when you ended up in my house..." he began uncertainly and finally looked up at me, his eyes filled with fear. Why was he scared? "I asked for your information, and my men provided this. It doesn't say your last name. Or your parents' names. And I didn't even notice. Or didn't care about it at the time, I guess.” He spoke quietly, and I beganshaking in earnest.
"Why...why do you care about my last name so much? Did you know my dad? Just fucking tell me!" Tears obscured my vision, because I knew…I knew that something awful and devastating was about to happen.
Roman pulled out his phone, his thumbs typing away in a frenzy. He turned it to me, and there, on the screen, was a picture of my father. “This is definitely your dad, right?" he asked, his voice drenched in defeat.
I nodded slowly, meeting his blue eyes. Everything was about to shatter between us; I knew it, Ifeltit. On the verge of tears, he dragged both hands down his cheeks, covering his face for a moment before letting out a shuddering breath. But then he pulled himself together, cleared his throat, and began.
“I was responsible for the death of your parents. They didn't die in a car accident.”
My heart stopped.
“Their bodies were placed in the right place, at the right time. And the coroner never provided the correct cause of death because...” he trailed off, searching for words. “Because we paid him to file what we needed. And then he died in a tragic accident too. Your parents' car was totaled somewhere else. And in the commotion of the unfortunate highway car pileup, their car was brought in and placed there."
I felt like Roman punched me in the face. I stood planted to the floor, my teeth chattering from his admission and my body swirling with panic, distress, and absolute horror at his words.
What? What did he say?
I took a second to just go over his words:I was responsible for the death of your parents.Did he say that? Was I dreaming?
"W-why?" I whispered, devoid of any real questions but wanting to know the full extent of it.
Roman was shattered, real tears lighting up his blue eyes. He swallowed hard and then delivered the death blow.
"Because...Anders Concrete & Cement won a public tender, and it deeply interfered with our expansion in California. They were awarded a huge contract...here,” he nodded, one hand on his hip and the other in his hair. “We tried to have a civil conversation with your father and get him to back down, but he refused. He refused once, twice, three times. Instead of putting pressure on him, we made the decision to get rid of him completely.
It was supposed to be just him in the...in the car, but unfortunately, your mom was there too, so...both of them were killed. They died the morning of that huge car pileup on the highway, and it…it was a last-minute decision. To place their bodies and car there."
Roman finished his evil speech, ripping my heart out of my chest. He became all blurry, and for some reason he and the room slid up into the ceiling. Something blunt crashed against my knees, and a sharp pain seared the left side of my face.
