Page 48
Story: Beautiful Monster
I shrug, the weight of my gun comfortable in my hand. "Call him. Ask him yourself." I nod to the phone on his desk, knowing he won't reach for it. Knowing he can't risk being wrong.
The silence stretches between us, thick with possibilities. Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, nature's quiet applause for the drama unfolding within these walls.
"What do you want?" Vlad finally asks, his voice cracking slightly. "Money? Territory? Name it."
I lean in close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "I want you to know fear, Vlad. The kind Alina felt when your men broke into our home. I want you to taste desperation like Kira did when your lackeys cornered her."
His eyes widen fractionally. "The girl wasn't supposed to be harmed. That was never?—"
"Save it," I cut him off, disgust churning in my gut. "Your intentions mean nothing against your actions. You know you wouldn’t have let my wife live."
I straighten, stepping back just enough to see his whole face, to memorize the moment. "You know what the difference is between us, Vlad? I would die for my family. You won't even live for yours."
His hand moves suddenly—a desperate lunge for the drawer where I know he keeps a revolver. Before his fingers can touch the handle, my bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him back into his chair with a howl of pain.
"That was discourteous," I say, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears. "I wasn't finished speaking."
Blood blossoms through his crisp white shirt, a crimson flower unfurling in slow motion. He clutches the wound, his breath coming in short, pained gasps.
"Mikhail," he manages, voice strained. "Be reasonable. We can work something out."
"Like you worked things out with the Novikovs?" I ask, circling behind him.
I press the barrel of my gun against the back of his head, feeling him tremble. The power is intoxicating—this moment of perfect control, of justice balanced on a knife's edge.
"Please," he whispers, and the word sounds foreign on his tongue. "My children?—"
“You don’t give a damn about your children or your wife. It’s too late to have a heart. You won’t be needing it anymore.”
I nod to Vanya. He moves with practiced efficiency, securing Vlad's wrists to the chair arms with zip ties that bite into his flesh. The sharp plastic clicks as they lock into place.
"Your children will be fine," I say, holstering my gun. "Better than fine, actually. They'll grow up without a monster for a father."
Vlad struggles against his restraints, blood seeping through his expensive shirt. "You're making a mistake, Mikhail. There are things you don't understand—alliances that will crumble when I'm gone."
"Let them crumble." I remove my jacket, folding it carefully over the back of a leather armchair. The room is warm, the scent of copper hanging heavy in the air. "Some things deserve to fall."
Vanya sets a black duffel on the desk, unzipping it with deliberate slowness. The metallic gleam of tools catches the lamplight—pliers, knives, a blowtorch. Instruments of confession. Of retribution.
"You don't have to watch this part, Misha," Vanya says, his voice soft despite the violence his hands promise. "I can handle it."
But I shake my head, rolling up my sleeves. "No. I need to be here for this."
Vlad's eyes widen as understanding dawns. His bravado finally cracks, revealing the coward beneath. "Wait—wait! I can give you names! The people who helped me, the ones who betrayed you!"
"I already know their names," I tell him, selecting a pair of pliers from the bag. The metal is cold against my palm, heavy with purpose. "But you're going to confirm them anyway."
The next hour passes in a symphony of screams and confessions. Vlad breaks easily—too easily for a man who has caused so much pain. He gives up his contacts, his hidden accounts, and the names of every traitor within my father's organization. With each revelation, my suspicions are confirmed. The conspiracy runs deeper than I imagined, touching people I've trusted for years.
Through it all, Vanya takes meticulous notes, his expression never changing. This is business to him—necessary, if unpleasant. For me, each scream is a balm on wounds that have festered for too long.
When Vlad has nothing left to give but whimpers, I clean my hands on a monogrammed handkerchief I find on his desk. The white silk comes away stained crimson.
"Do you want to know something, Vlad?" I lean close to his ear, his blood hot against my skin. "I lied earlier. My father doesn't know I'm here. This isn't business—it's personal, just like you said."
His one remaining eye widens, bloodshot and desperate.
"But he'll understand when I tell him what you've done. What you planned to do." I straighten, nodding to Vanya. "We're finished here."
The silence stretches between us, thick with possibilities. Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, nature's quiet applause for the drama unfolding within these walls.
"What do you want?" Vlad finally asks, his voice cracking slightly. "Money? Territory? Name it."
I lean in close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "I want you to know fear, Vlad. The kind Alina felt when your men broke into our home. I want you to taste desperation like Kira did when your lackeys cornered her."
His eyes widen fractionally. "The girl wasn't supposed to be harmed. That was never?—"
"Save it," I cut him off, disgust churning in my gut. "Your intentions mean nothing against your actions. You know you wouldn’t have let my wife live."
I straighten, stepping back just enough to see his whole face, to memorize the moment. "You know what the difference is between us, Vlad? I would die for my family. You won't even live for yours."
His hand moves suddenly—a desperate lunge for the drawer where I know he keeps a revolver. Before his fingers can touch the handle, my bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him back into his chair with a howl of pain.
"That was discourteous," I say, my voice eerily calm even to my own ears. "I wasn't finished speaking."
Blood blossoms through his crisp white shirt, a crimson flower unfurling in slow motion. He clutches the wound, his breath coming in short, pained gasps.
"Mikhail," he manages, voice strained. "Be reasonable. We can work something out."
"Like you worked things out with the Novikovs?" I ask, circling behind him.
I press the barrel of my gun against the back of his head, feeling him tremble. The power is intoxicating—this moment of perfect control, of justice balanced on a knife's edge.
"Please," he whispers, and the word sounds foreign on his tongue. "My children?—"
“You don’t give a damn about your children or your wife. It’s too late to have a heart. You won’t be needing it anymore.”
I nod to Vanya. He moves with practiced efficiency, securing Vlad's wrists to the chair arms with zip ties that bite into his flesh. The sharp plastic clicks as they lock into place.
"Your children will be fine," I say, holstering my gun. "Better than fine, actually. They'll grow up without a monster for a father."
Vlad struggles against his restraints, blood seeping through his expensive shirt. "You're making a mistake, Mikhail. There are things you don't understand—alliances that will crumble when I'm gone."
"Let them crumble." I remove my jacket, folding it carefully over the back of a leather armchair. The room is warm, the scent of copper hanging heavy in the air. "Some things deserve to fall."
Vanya sets a black duffel on the desk, unzipping it with deliberate slowness. The metallic gleam of tools catches the lamplight—pliers, knives, a blowtorch. Instruments of confession. Of retribution.
"You don't have to watch this part, Misha," Vanya says, his voice soft despite the violence his hands promise. "I can handle it."
But I shake my head, rolling up my sleeves. "No. I need to be here for this."
Vlad's eyes widen as understanding dawns. His bravado finally cracks, revealing the coward beneath. "Wait—wait! I can give you names! The people who helped me, the ones who betrayed you!"
"I already know their names," I tell him, selecting a pair of pliers from the bag. The metal is cold against my palm, heavy with purpose. "But you're going to confirm them anyway."
The next hour passes in a symphony of screams and confessions. Vlad breaks easily—too easily for a man who has caused so much pain. He gives up his contacts, his hidden accounts, and the names of every traitor within my father's organization. With each revelation, my suspicions are confirmed. The conspiracy runs deeper than I imagined, touching people I've trusted for years.
Through it all, Vanya takes meticulous notes, his expression never changing. This is business to him—necessary, if unpleasant. For me, each scream is a balm on wounds that have festered for too long.
When Vlad has nothing left to give but whimpers, I clean my hands on a monogrammed handkerchief I find on his desk. The white silk comes away stained crimson.
"Do you want to know something, Vlad?" I lean close to his ear, his blood hot against my skin. "I lied earlier. My father doesn't know I'm here. This isn't business—it's personal, just like you said."
His one remaining eye widens, bloodshot and desperate.
"But he'll understand when I tell him what you've done. What you planned to do." I straighten, nodding to Vanya. "We're finished here."
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51