Rozanov was placed at Lochborne Academy of Arts some years back by the Raskovs. A former Soviet soldier with the right instinct and no illusion about innocence. The children in his school were safe, not because he was kind, but because he was loyal. However, I doubted he was doing his job meticulously lately. Maybe he once outperformed, and then old age kicked in. The results had been quite underwhelming so far. The Raskovs found themselves constantly releasing funds for the school than what they were extracting from it. A school that was meant to generate money was now just busy consuming it.
A throat cleared, redirecting my attention to the centre of the table. “Lord Whittingham,” Mikhail intoned. “You remember him? We shared dinner with him on his 65th birthday a couple of months ago.”
Whoever the hell that was, I was sure I had never had dinner with him. Perhaps, I remembered Callan mentioning him in one of the notes he always left for me.
‘Mikhail Raskov and I had dinner with Lord Whittingham. Mikhail said he could be helpful soon. I think he was trying to match his daughter with me. I’m letting you know just in case another random dinner is brought up. Her name is Evangeline. She’s particularly forward and touchy. I know, I find it uncomfortable too. But please, don’t cut off her fingers.’
Thankfully for me, no dinner had been brought up since I got that message. She didn’t sound like my type. Easy preys had a bitter after taste. And she was blonde. I preferred them red-haired or brunette…and yes, I would have cut off her damn fingers.
I wondered why the name was being brought up again. They couldn’t have called this meeting just to schedule a dinner, could they?
There was a folder on the table. Was it a marriage proposal? Wedding invitation?
As long as I wasn’t the groom, no problem.
I stretched my hand over the table, reaching for the folder. I pulled off the seal and dipped my hands into it.
“A minor issue occurred,” Mikhail continued as I pulled out photographs of bodies, tiles sleek with blood, faces that were young and ruined. “We have been asked to take care of it. Make it disappear.”
I spared another look at the photo, scanned the room of people watching me with anticipation, and raised a brow at Mikhail. “A minor?” I turned one of the photographs to him. Minor issue? The girl in the photo couldn’t have been more than 13.
“Yes.” He nodded. “She’s an influencer or whatever they call them. Her fans are crazy. It’s like some bloody cult. They are all over social media, tagging everyone, asking to bring the perpetrator to justice.” An irritated vein on his temple flexed. “The issue is becoming international and has everyone’s attention.”
I scoffed, dropping the file with a thud. “What are we, really? Some damn clean up crew?”
They always did this. Get their hands dirty, play too close to the law, and then run to the Raskovs to save their arse.
“He does a lot for us,” someone said. My eyes fell on him, a regular-looking guy, couldn’t be more than 40, said to be working in the Ministry of Justice now after being a prosecutor for ten years. The world was a damn joke. A prosecutor was about to bury a crime such as child sexual assault and murder.
“What happened?” I asked, even if I already knew.
“You don’t wish to know,” Mikhail said, a dry, humourless chuckle echoing past his chapped lips. “I don’t think anyone here wants to know.”
But I knew. The bastard was rotten, just like all of us. He raped a minor, probably beat her up when she refused to comply, killed her to silence her. But he couldn’t dispose of the body well.
“We know you’re busy,” Mikhail smiled like a priest delivering a speech. “Please, do the usual. Call your men, rewrite the story, forge the scene, get the law enforcers the killer they are looking for.”
I leaned back into my chair, my eyes scanning the faces of hypocrites. Good men, philanthropists in the eyes of the public, but monsters inside.
How was it so possible for them to wear and peel off a mask so easily?
My eyes fell on the picture littered on the table again.
Well, this looked like Callan’s business now. He would hate it, rebel against it, but he would eventually do it. Because regent Pakhan or not, he was still a man who had to dance to their tune.
He was still their puppet.
???
The shower head pulsed as water gushed out of the mouth, pelting down my skin in hot rivulets.
My muscles were tense, my blood hot, charging with adrenaline and the hunger I wasn’t able to tame or satiate.
This was the most dissatisfied and frustrated I had been since I was in control. I had never left without a final kill. Today wasa bad day for me. But I couldn’t stay in the body any longer. Not when my brother was currently ripping through my skull.
“Let go.”I heard a quiet voice in my head, a light stirring deep within me.
My eyes caught my reflection in the glass wall of the bathroom. I could swear the image of me twitched and flickered.
