feeling, Lucian. From birth, you were born into wealth. You know nothing but comfort and security. You’ve never known hunger. What it feels like to do whatever it takes to feed your starving family.”
“Why not just give him the money, then?”
“Do you have any idea how many of them come to us? Begging for mercy. A handout? What makes him any more deserving than the others?” He rubs his hands over the man’s shoulders. “This way, we get something in return, at least.”
“By torturing him?”
“This is a study. One rooted in science. Evolution. He’s merely a catalyst. A variable to test.”
“He’s a human being.”
“Who came to us. We didn’t seek him out. He was well-informed of who we are and what we do.”
“Enough of this! You will do as you’re told, or by God, I’ll throw your ass back into that institute for another week.” My father’s voice thunders behind me, skating down my spine. “I’ll not stand by and--”
Dr. Voigt holds his hand up, silencing my father, and for a moment, I wonder if Griffin Blackthorne will strike out at him, the way he does to anyone who threatens his pride. Instead, he lowers his head.
“The boy chooses for himself,” Dr. Voigt says. “Dole out this man’s punishment, and we’ll pay him what he’s asked for. He’ll walk away with more money than he earns in a year. Or tell him you refuse.”
The man’s jaw quivers, as if he wants to cry, but I won’t do it. My choice. I won’t let them turn me into a monster.
“I refuse.”
Two days have passed, and my father has made a point to avoid me. He hasn’t punished me for what I’m certain he views as insolence. It’s as if I don’t exist, at all.
Until today.
I sit in one of the chairs across from his desk, hands in my lap so he won’t see my fidgeting.
Across from me, he holds a rolled-up newspaper, tapping it against the top of his desk, as if in taunting, while he stares back at me.
I wonder if he’ll strike me with the thing.
In answer to my thoughts, he tosses the paper in front of me, and it flips open to the front page, where a headline reads: Boston Man Dies Horrifically After He Throws Himself From Overpass Onto Busy Traffic.
Nausea gurgles in my stomach when I catch sight of Robert Tackas’ name in the body of the article.
“Tell me, what do you think would’ve resulted in less suffering?” My father’s taunting words only twist the blade stabbing at my conscience.
“It’s not my fault.”
“Not your fault? Imagine if he’d walked out of here with the money he requested?”
“I won’t let you blame me for this.”
“I don’t have to. You blame yourself. It’s written all over your face.”
Tears spring to my eyes, the anger and guilt pulling and stretching, growing inside of me. “You could’ve given him the money.”
“Nothing is free, Lucian. Nothing. Including you.” He pushes up from his desk, and maybe it’s just the shadows behind him, but he seems larger than usual. More intimidating. As he rounds the desk, my pulse hastens, my hands balling to fists, waiting for the moment I’ll have to defend myself. “This world is made up of strong and weak. It’s believed that nature decides who thrives and who perishes, based on certain genetics we’re bestowed with at birth. But that isn’t true. Your great-grandfather, and his father before him, were starving fishermen. Men who couldn’t afford to feed their families. By all accounts, he should’ve perished with the weak. In suffering, in pain, he found strength, and that strength changed his fate.” He reaches for a half-smoked cigar balanced on the edge of an ashtray and lights it up. “One day, this company will be in your hands. And I fear it will perish there. Generations of work and toil--”
“I don’t want it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want your company, or your secret group. I want out.”
His eye twitches as he stares down at me in a brief moment of silence. “And what will you do with your life, Lucian? Play music?” At the derision and mocking in his voice, I grind my teeth, and he chuckles. “There are thousands upon thousands of musicians in the world. There is, however, only one successful shipping company in this entire country. Built by sweat and sacrifice.”
“And blood. Blood of innocent people. How many have you killed to stay on top, Father?”
“As many as it takes.” He tips his head as if studying me.