Page 6 of Shadows of Obsession
“Please, please! I'll tell you everything I know,” comes out more like a sob.
By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, my sleeves are rolled up and several shirt buttons are undone. I already left my tie at the house entrance.
“Couldn't wait for me?” I say, irritated, taking a few steps into the room as Damien turns, and I see the madness of the moment written all over his face.
This is why Damien's among the few people I'd call...friend. I guess that's the word. We won't share popcorn or go on vacation together, but I'd torture a traitor and execute them for him just like I would my own.Friend, right?
“Mr. Kaminski, please!” the man in the chair gasps amid tears and snot.
What the hell does Damien think he'll get from this guy?
“Roman, pick your tool and start pulling his nails. This idiot doesn't seem to hear my questions.”
And I do exactly as he says. He is the host, after all. Our prisoner's eyes go wide, and he starts thrashing in the chair. When his gaze lands on me, I see exactly what my demon loves to see. Terror. Panic.
Physically, I'm not much more imposing than Damien, but unlike me, he looks like the type who'd tie you to a chair andpull out your nails. I look like I spend my days in meetings and expensive dinners. But not today. Today I'm letting my demon take some control.
“Last time I'm asking. Who's financing Devin's attacks?” Damien's voice echoes in the basement.
The room's empty and, like my torture basement, it's soundproof. A few LEDs light the space, and besides the chair where Devin's accountant sits, there are two tables on one side and a fingerprint-locked cabinet holding weapons and necessary tools.
“I don't have a name, I told you! But I know the money came from Russia,” he says.
I stop selecting tools and share a look with Damien.
The Russian mafia from the motherland doesn't have much influence here, but even they know our power and wouldn't risk pushing it into Irish hands. Unless we're missing something. We've always worked well with Ilya, the Moscow pakhan, which means either Ilya wants to stab us in the back or someone's trying to betray him too.
“Every report and invoice has a name attached, Ben,” I say, my tone calculating.
When I look at him, pliers in hand, the realization that he won't leave here intact settles on his face.
We're not stupid. As an accountant, you have to know at least one company name, even if it's fake. If Ben thinks we'll be nicer than the Irish, he's wrong.
When I see he's still silent, I take his hand and place it on the nearby table. Before he can react, his thumb nail is gone. His scream is exactly like a little girl's, and he instinctively clutches his hand to his chest, rocking back and forth. I roll my eyesat this reaction. He won't last fifteen minutes at this rate, and judging by Damien's annoyed face, he's realized the same thing.
“A name, Ben, or in five seconds your ring finger's going to look pretty sad. Then I'll take this hammer and make sure you never type again,” I say while Damien sits on the nearby table.
This dance between the madness of drawing out screams and the control that comes with it - we're both addicted to it.
I watch Ben swallow hard, looking at Damien for mercy or help.Ha. If I weren't here, Damien would probably skin him alive. He has a thing for tearing apart people who annoy him, but he always holds back when I join. Think I mess up his ritual somehow, who knows.
I grab the hammer, and though Ben's shaking his head and crying, trying to hide his hand, Damien grabs it and pins it back to the table. His ring finger nail flies off like the first, and this time the scream is much sharper. So piercing I can't help but wince. I swear my eardrum's bleeding too.
“To hell with this,” Damien says.
He takes the hammer from me, and just as it's inches from crushing Ben's fingers, he screams,“ROSNEK! ROSNEK ENTERPRISES!”
The hammer freezes midair, but two seconds later Damien slams it full force into Ben’s index finger. The sound of breaking bone is followed by Ben screeching like a trapped animal.
“You said if I told you, you wouldn't do that,” Ben whimpers.
Damien laughs, looking at him maliciously.
“Friend, you're in my basement, my house, my territory. You do the books for the people who sabotaged an important shipment. If I want to ram this hammer into your skull to check if your cerebellum's where it should be, I will. Clear?”
Ben starts shaking and his eyes roll back in his skull.
Seriously? He fainted? We barely started.
