The Devil's CrownPart Two - Monica James Page 0,124

I know.”

My stomach roils in disgust because he’s right—a lifetime ago, I did kidnap women, forcing them to submit. It’s what I did to Willow. But now, even talking about this makes me want to vomit. It makes what I have to do all the more imperative, not only for the children but for myself as well.

Ella comforts me, placing her hand on my thigh. She reads my inner turmoil. But I don’t deserve her consolation.

Coming to a stand, I place my cigar between my lips and reach into my back pocket for my wallet. Opening it up, I can’t help but smile when Irina’s picture stares back at me. Running my finger over her cheeky smile, I silently promise I’m about to make things right.

“I don’t wish to go into business with you, Christian.”

This gets his attention.

“I want to show you something.”

Digging out Irina’s picture, I pass it to Christian. His desk is the only barricade between us. He accepts the photo warily, looking at it. I look for any signs of recognition, but I don’t see any.

“That’s my daughter,” I reveal. “Her name is Irina.”

“Congratulations,” Christian says, confused as to why I’m sharing this piece of personal information with him. “I didn’t know you were a father.”

“Not many do. And there’s a reason for that. You see, Irina means everything to me, and that means she is leverage for any lowlife who wanted to gain an advantage over me. Serg learned the hard way what happens when you hurt the people I love.”

Ella’s steady breathing gives me the strength to continue.

“Irina isn’t my biological daughter,” I expose, resting my hands on the edge of the desk. “I adopted her when she was left at the orphanage, emaciated, riddled with lice, and practically nonverbal.

“Someone dumped her like an unwanted dog, making her someone else’s problem.”

Christian shifts in his chair. I watch for any signs that he’s reaching for a weapon or pressing an alarm button to call for help. So far, so good.

“The thing is, when I stole Rodrigo’s yacht after I drugged his girlfriend and found those three little children you ordered Rodrigo to deliver to Tura, I couldn’t help but compare their state to Irina’s.”

Christian rests his cigar in the ashtray, realizing that in roughly a minute he’ll need both hands. He never asked where Rodrigo was. Rookie move on his behalf.

“You see, I can’t find any background information on Irina. And I know the odds are slim, but I can’t shake the feeling that you’ve got something to do with that. So take a closer look at that picture and tell me if she looks familiar or not.”

Christian does as I demand.

After a few seconds, he dismissively tosses the photo onto the desk. “Nope,” he says, popping the P. “There is nothing special about her. She’s a dime a dozen. Sorry.”

Inhaling deeply, I turn to Ella and pass her my cigar for safekeeping as I won’t waste a good Cuban on this piece of shit. Before Christian has a chance to react, I reach for the letter opener, dive across the desk, and drive the sharpened end into his left shoulder, pinning him to the chair.

He howls in agony, desperately trying to pull out the letter opener. But I don’t give him a chance.

Springing to my feet, I round the desk, come up behind Christian’s chair and kick it forward so he’s wedged between the desk and the chair. I grip the back of his head and slam it onto the desk. His arm is still pinned to the chair, so he either shifts to give himself some slack, or he can become a contortionist.

He slumps forward, which results in the letter opener tearing through flesh.

“How about you take a closer look?” I suggest, snaring his hair and turning his head to look at Irina’s picture once again.

“I don’t know her, stronzo!” he shouts, spittle running down his chin as I can imagine a letter opener wedged in one’s shoulder would be awfully painful. “They all look the same!”

“скотина, they are not the same. Each life you destroy belongs to someone who could be anything. Their whole life is ahead of them, but you ruin any chance they have at deciding what their future holds. You force them into a life which no child should ever experience.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have to fend for yourself. You were born with a silver spoon so far up your ass that it’s made you think you’re