Page 24 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

INDIGO

ONE WEEK LATER

The pumpkin pie is still warm in my hand as the SUV turn down the street. Outside, the shadows are growing longer and the evening air holds that perfect Thanksgiving chill that makes you appreciate being bundled up.

Amara leans forward from the backseat. "Do you think Marcus will like the pie?"

"I'm sure he'll love it," I assure her. "He might give you a hard time about the crust."

"Then he can make his own next time," Amara huffs, but she's still smiling.

Smiling, I turn to see Anatoly's blue eyes staring warmly at me. He's dressed down tonight. Not his usual suit but a pair of dark slacks and a cashmere sweater that makes him look almost normal.

Almost.

"What?" I ask, catching his stare.

"Nothing." He traces his thumb across my knuckles. "I just like seeing you excited."

The SUV slows and we make the final turn onto the street.

And that's when excitement fades away, and only the bitter taste of dread remains.

The block ahead is bathed in flashing red and blue lights, reflecting off shop windows. Four police cars are parked at odd angles outside the barbershop. Several cops are milling around, some talking into radios, others stretching yellow tape across the entrance.

"What the hell?" I whisper and Amara clutches my arm.

I look back at Anatoly. His face has lost all the warmth that was just there a few seconds ago. And that dangerous stillness I've come to recognize returns immediately as he takes in the scene.

I know he would want me to stay in the car. But I can't.

Quickly, I unbuckle my seatbelt, set the pie on the dashboard, and push open the door.

"Indigo, wait—" Anatoly starts, but I'm already stepping out into the cold November air.

I hear Anatoly's door slam behind me as he rushes to catch up. His hand reaches for mine, but I'm already walking toward the barbershop, heart pounding.

A cop turns when he hears our approach, immediately stepping into our path. "Ma'am, sir, you need to stay back. This is an active crime scene."

"What's going on?" I demand, trying to see past him.

The officer's face hardens. "I'm not at liberty to discuss details of an ongoing investigation."

There's someone else there as well, standing with a cordon of cops around him like a black wall as he watches what's going on with an almost bored passivity. There's something familiar about the way he stands that sends another drop of dread snaking down the back of my spine.

Once the initial shock of what I'm seeing passes, I realize there are also a number of press vans and reporters also on site.

Something's not right.

Anatoly steps up beside me, and the officer's eyes immediately flick towards his way.

"Look, we just need to know if—" I start again, but the words die in my throat when I see Marcus being led out the front door of his barbershop.

His hands are cuffed behind his back. His head is bowed, but I can see the defeated slump of his shoulders.

"Marcus!" I call out, starting forward again.

Marcus looks up at the sound of my voice, his eyes finding mine. There's resignation there, and something else. A warning? He gives the smallest shake of his head, almost as if he's afraid of doing much more.

The officer puts his arm out to block me. "Ma'am, I need you to step back now."

"What are you arresting him for?" I try to push past, but the officer stands firm. "He hasn't done anything wrong!"

That's when the person with the cops standing all around him turns around, and I freeze when I see who it is.

A pair of familiar eyes with a sleazy gleam, made more apparent by the flashing lights of the patrol cars, find mine across the street. A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face.

Ryan.

"Amelia," he calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What a surprise to see you here."

Ryan takes a step towards me, and the cops around him follow like the dutiful lapdogs that they are. I feel Anatoly stiffen beside me and he instinctively steps forward as if trying to shield me from Ryan.

"Wrong name, wrong place," I tell him in a flat and cold voice. "What the fuck did you do, Ryan?"

"My civic duty," he says when he's directly across from me.

"Are you aware, Amelia, that this establishment has some interesting connections to organized crime.

" His eyes flash towards Anatoly, and the self-satisfied smile on his face widens as he does.

"One worth a closer look from the authorities. "

My hands ball into fists. "Bullshit."

"Is that right, Amelia?" Ryan interrupts, his voice dripping with false concern.

"If you're so certain that Mr. Jackson's establishment isn't taking dirty money, then I'd love to see the evidence.

Because as far as the mayor's office is concerned, there has been a noticeable influx of money to this part of the Bronx in the last couple of weeks.

And well, we wouldn't be doing our due diligence if we didn't follow up on it. "

"You're not the fucking mayor, Ryan. Or have you forgotten that?"

"True." He nods. "But someone has to continue carrying out my father's work to clean up this city."

His eyes turn towards Anatoly again.

"And there is so much to clean up. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Baryshev."

Anatoly chooses to remain silent.

Interpreting the silence as weakness, Ryan looks back at me. "Did you get my letter?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And? Just what exactly do you expect me to say? Do you think a letter can fix the past? Do you think it absolves you of your part of what your father did? Of what you did?"

A light turns towards us, so bright that it makes my eyes water. When my eyes adjust, I see a camera from NBC 5 pointing at me. Nearby, a reporter stands with her microphone in hand, waiting for her opportunity.

"My father was a good man."

"Your father was—"

"Murdered in his office. Yes." Ryan interrupts me quickly.

"By criminal thugs who continue to terrorize these streets, who continue to use fronts like Mr. Jackson's to launder their money, and who continue to take from good hard-working New Yorkers for their own personal gains.

But thanks to a tip from a good Samaritan by the name of Lola Volkov, we can now start the process of correcting these historic injustices.

We can start down the long road of putting New York back on track. "

I know what he's doing.

By using Lola's name, he's telling me that he knows Anatoly killed his father.

More importantly, he's using this opportunity to show me just how much power he still holds over me and Anatoly while also telling us openly that he's under Volkov protection.

Even with a TV camera shoved into my face, I can't speak the truth about Grant Bennet, about what he really is and the things he made me do.

Because if I do, Ryan will take this opportunity to destroy Anatoly.

"Mr. Bennet," Anatoly speaks up.

The blinding light shifts ever so slightly away from my face, and the camera turns to focus on Anatoly.

"Lola Volkov is not someone you should trust," he says.

Ryan's eyes narrow slightly. "And who should I trust? Someone like you?"

"No." Anatoly smiles politely, but his eyes remain as cold and threatening as ever. "You shouldn't trust someone like me either."

He takes a step towards Ryan. Sensing the tension, the cameraman edges closer as well.

"Most importantly, you should be careful with what you say about criminal thugs," Anatoly doesn't raise his voice, yet it continues to carry perfectly through the cold air.

"Your father met a grisly end for simply suggesting that he go after organized crime, and now you're taking an active part in it.

What's to say that same person who murdered your father won't hesitate to do the same to you. "

"You—" Ryan snarls.

Anatoly holds up a single finger.

And miraculously, the gesture is enough to finally get Ryan to shut the fuck up.

"I would choose your next words very carefully, Mr. Bennet. You never know who might be watching."

Savage satisfaction thrums through me as Ryan's face drains of color.

The facade of confidence starts to chip and crack.

His Adam's apple bobs visibly as he swallows.

He tries to keep his eyes focused on Anatoly, but his nerves get the best of him and he steals a sideways glance towards the camera as beads of sweat begins to gather on his brows.

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Baryshev?" he finally asks.

"Threatening? No." Anatoly's expression remains perfectly neutral. "Just making an observation."

"Stay out of this, Mr. Baryshev." Ryan tries to square up. "Amelia doesn't need you fighting her battles."

"In case you've forgotten, Mr. Bennet. She is my wife."

Anatoly steps closer until he's looking down at Ryan. The cops nearby also step forward. But this doesn't deter Anatoly. He invades Ryan's personal space, and continues to step forward until he's practically sneering down at Ryan.

"Her battles are my battles. People who are close to her, like Mr. Jackson, are close to me."

"Mr. Jackson is an active participant in organized crime," Ryan repeats pathetically. The sweat on his forehead glistens under the bright lights of the camera.

"That isn't for you to decide. Mr. Jackson is innocent until proven guilty, no matter how much of a media circus you've staged. But I think we all know why this is the option you chose, don't we?"

"Since you seem to have all the answers, Mr. Baryshev, why don't you enlighten us."

"You're here because you can't let go of your obsession with my wife. You want to hurt her, but because you're too much of a coward, you're choosing this pathetic pageantry of power. Do I have that right, Mr. Bennet?"

Whatever mask of civility remaining on Ryan's face now vanishes without a trace. "She was mine before you ever touched her!"

"And now she's mine. Don't you ever presume that you can speak like that to my wife again," Anatoly tells Ryan. "Or we're going to have problems."