Grimm Little Obsession

Chapter Two-Part 1 Roman

Roman

“I'm going to give you three opportunities to tell me the truth, Mikhail. Three. Not because I'm particularly generous, but because Kostya seems to think I have a problem with patience, and I've been making a conscious effort toward personal growth.”

Roman Morozov sank deeper into the uncomfortable visitor's chair, stretching his long legs beneath the table as he watched the sweating man opposite him. The consultation room smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee, and somewhere beyond the closed door, a woman was shouting about someone stealing her cigarettes. It was an impressive amount of noise for a building supposedly dedicated to restoring people's mental well-being.

Mikhail Sokolov swallowed hard, his gaze flickering toward the small observation window set into the door.

“I told you, Roman. I don't know anything.”

“That's one.”

Mikhail's eyes widened. “What?”

“One opportunity wasted. It's a shame, really. I had high hopes for you.” Roman glanced at the clock mounted above the door, then back at the man across from him. “Although, in fairness, I've always been a terrible judge of character. I once dated a woman who believed the earth was flat. Beautiful girl. Absolutely spectacular t**s. Couldn't read a f*****g map to save her life.”

“Roman, please—”

“Ah, don't interrupt. I'm reminiscing.”

Roman smiled pleasantly, but Mikhail didn't return the expression. The man looked considerably worse than the last time Roman had seen him, which was saying something, considering he'd never been particularly attractive to begin with. His once-thick brown hair had thinned considerably, and his gray hospital-issued clothing hung loosely from shoulders that had once filled out an expensive Italian suit. There was a tremor in his hands that Roman didn't remember, although whether it came from medication, nerves, or the sudden appearance of an old acquaintance was anyone's guess.

Mikhail had been useful once. He'd spent nearly six years managing transportation routes for the Volkov organization, overseeing shipments, coordinating drivers, and ensuring valuable merchandise reached its intended destination without attracting unnecessary attention. Then a shipment had disappeared, two men had turned up dead, and several details known only to a handful of trusted associates had somehow found their way into the hands of people who had no business knowing them.

Three weeks later, Mikhail had suffered what his attorneys described as a severe psychological collapse.

Convenient timing, that.

Roman wasn't particularly interested in whether the collapse had been genuine. He'd met enough genuinely disturbed people to know that mental illness and being a treacherous piece of s**t weren't mutually exclusive. What interested him was that Mikhail had somehow disappeared into a secure psychiatric facility while a substantial amount of Konstantin Volkov's money remained unaccounted for.

And Kostya, God bless his cold, suspicious heart, was growing impatient.

“Let's try something easier,” Roman suggested, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “Where did the money go?”

Mikhail shook his head. “I don't know.”

“That's two.”

“Jesus Christ, Roman, I swear to you—”

“Careful.” Roman lifted one finger, his smile never wavering. “I'd hate for you to waste your last opportunity on something embarrassing.”

Mikhail dragged a trembling hand down his face. “You can't do anything to me in here.”

Roman considered that statement with genuine interest.

“Can't I?”

“There are cameras. Guards. Doctors.” Mikhail gestured toward the observation window, gaining a little confidence as he spoke. “You think they're going to let you walk in here and threaten me?”

Roman glanced around the room, taking in the camera mounted high in the corner, the heavy door, and the neatly arranged pamphlets on the windowsill advertising the benefits of mindfulness and healthy communication.

Then he looked back at Mikhail.

“I'm sitting here having a perfectly civil conversation with an old friend. You're the one getting yourself all worked up.” He tilted his head, studying the man's increasingly pale complexion. “Perhaps you should mention that to your doctor. Might be worth adjusting your medication.”

“f**k you.”

“There he is.” Roman grinned. “I was beginning to miss the old Mikhail.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the silence, accompanied by the distant rattle of a cart moving down the corridor. Roman allowed the quiet to stretch, watching Mikhail's eyes dart between the door and the clock as though either might offer an escape from the conversation.

Eventually, Roman sighed.

“You know what disappoints me most? It isn't the money. Kostya has enough money to buy this entire miserable building, knock it down, and replace it with a parking lot if the mood strikes him. It's the principle of the thing.” He leaned back again, his expression turning almost thoughtful. “You sat at his table. Drank his vodka. Ate his food. He trusted you with his business, and you repaid him by making two of our men disappear.”

“I didn't kill anyone.”

“Interesting.” Roman's eyes sharpened. “I don't recall accusing you of killing them.”

Mikhail's mouth snapped shut.

Roman watched the realization spread across his face and felt a familiar flicker of satisfaction. People were remarkably predictable when frightened. Give them enough silence and they'd usually rush to fill it, often with information they hadn't intended to share.

“Now,” Roman continued pleasantly, “we're finally getting somewhere.”

Mikhail lowered his gaze to the table. “I didn't know they were going to die.”

Roman went still.

It was a small change, barely noticeable beneath his relaxed posture, but the amusement faded from his eyes.

“Who?”

Mikhail shook his head.

Roman waited.

“Who, Mikhail?”

“You don't understand.” His voice had dropped to a desperate whisper. “If I tell you, I'm dead.”

Roman studied him for several seconds before letting out a quiet breath.

“See, that's the problem with people like you. You mistake my good mood for mercy.” He smiled again, although there was nothing particularly friendly about it now. “They're two very different things, and unfortunately for you, I'm having a wonderful f*****g day.”

Mikhail's face drained of what little color remained.

Roman reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

The man flinched so violently that his chair scraped against the floor.

Roman paused, one eyebrow lifting, before withdrawing a small packet of chewing gum.

“Christ, Mikhail. Relax.” He slipped a piece into his mouth and offered the packet across the table. “You want one?”

Mikhail stared at him.

“No?”

Roman shrugged and tucked it away.

“You really ought to work on that anxiety. This place is supposed to be helping you.”

“Roman…”

“Names,” Roman said, his tone losing its playful edge. “I want names. I want to know who approached you, who arranged the transfer, and who gave the order to kill Viktor and Pavel. You can start wherever you like, but I suggest you start talking before I lose interest in being polite.”

Mikhail looked toward the observation window one final time.

Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice until Roman had to tilt his head to hear.

“It wasn't supposed to happen like that,” he whispered. “The shipment was supposed to disappear for forty-eight hours. That's all. I was told nobody would get hurt.”

“By whom?”

Mikhail hesitated.

Roman's smile returned.

“Third opportunity, Misha.”

The man swallowed.

And finally, he gave Roman a name.