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“Don’t let me start,” Fylox mutters, shutting the door behind him. The car rattles, and I feel my son-in-law’s anxiety go through the roof. Cursing. Colognes. He’s sensitive and easily triggered, my son-in-law. “Did Ivy tell you?”
I nod.
“Of course, she did,” Fylox says. “Please, give me enough time to mentally prepare for a wedding, will you?”
He puts on his seatbelt, and he twists his head in my direction. “I’m sorry I faked information.”
“You did what? She didn’t tell me that part,” I blurt out.
“I wanted her to decide whether you should know. That sort of thing… Finding out you were bought as a baby by a pervert… That’s not easily digestible now, is it?” Fylox runs a hand through his hair, dark hair that he’s growing back after years of bleaching it.
“What’s going on, Fylox? You must have information,” I tell him.
“Indeed. Unfortunately.” He takes a deep breath. “Hugh has been going in and out of Katantia for some time now. We know that. He never bothered Ivy before. The moment you got close to her; Hugh makes another triumphant return.”
“He’s got eyes here, doesn’t he?” I ask.
“Of course, he does,” Fylox replies, deadpanning. “I looked into the house that Ignas resides in, and I hate to tell you, but our security has failed that building. The system’s been offline for weeks now. We’re talking about vulnerable kids here. And Ignas and the rest of the young adults in the already-dangerous part of the building.”
“You mean to say that the attack on Ivy’s home was premeditated? Somebody dismantled the security system on purpose?”
“What do you say?” Fylox asks.
“I agree. When Ignas messaged me that he got himself a wheelchair and money for a ride to Ivy’s place, I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t want to. Ivy’s told me how he makes money, and quite frankly, I don’t like thinking of a person of his age being forced to sell his body to make ends meet. I told him to stay at home, thinking that at his age, he would easily read his texts before he makes a move. He didn’t. He came over, and suddenly, a fire erupts at the building? It doesn’t sound right.”
“Police is in on it. They are interviewing our guards and the people at the abandoned youth facility,” Fylox tells me. “There’s something else you need to know. This time, when Hugh flew into Katantia, he brought a child. He didn’t register her, but there’s been an abduction connected to his name in California… It’s a long story, and it involves a group of people in Los Angeles. Their woman works with this underage teen, doing her nails. The kid’s a television star. Hugh’s into all sorts of business, isn’t he? Apparently, he opened a production company. He’s been working with studios to find young talent… It’s his playground. He grabbed one of the girls, and he brought her over to Katantia. Her friends have come looking for her. I locked them up in the cellar, but Kamila insisted on letting them out. Now, we wait for them to wake up.”
“You want me to bring the kid to the palace?” I ask.
“Yes. Quickly. I can’t stand guests. You know that.”
“Oh, I do. Listen… I’ve been craving the old days. Since he blew up my woman’s home, I want to burn him alive,” I tell Fylox.
“You do?” I nod. “I’ve got tons of what you need. Take me to the palace. I’ll show you my dungeon of pain.”
“I hope you don’t tie up Kamila in there—”
“Not that dungeon,” Fylox corrects me. “The other one, where people go to die. I’ve saved one of Kamila’s father’s rotting toes there. I always gawk at it when I feel down. It cheers me up to remember how I chopped him up and made him choke on his own dick. It’s a freeing feeling to hurt abusers.”
I start the engine without interrupting Fylox. He goes on and on about his father-in-law, the man he killed in front of Kamila. It’s a trip down memory lane that he takes quite frequently. It’s a scene that motivates us to go the fuck on.
That’s what we’re here to do.
Cut off heads until there’s nothing but dust left.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
IVY
My eyes drift shut,luring me into a deep sleep.
“Ivy.”
It’s a voice of comfort that comes to me, but this comfort has twisted into sorrow. Smolyakov takes a seat at the edge of my bed, and for a moment, we’re back at my place. He’s begging me to entertain him, paint him.
We’re laughing at nothing in particular and enjoying ourselves until my coffee’s ready and I can sit down on the floor to paint him while he looks out of the window.
But we’re not at my place.
