Page 39 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

ANATOLY

Killian raises a glass as he stares at me in the back office of The Devil's Shamrock. The club outside is empty, closed for a "private party" tonight.

"Not every day I get to hold one pakhan captive while killing another one," he muses. "Makes a man wonder about his place in history."

"Pretending to hold a pakhan captive," I correct him.

He smirks. "Just want to make sure this looks convincing."

I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension in my muscles. Fake restraints bind my wrists loosely. It's fool Taras and Mother when they arrive, but still easy to slip out of when the time comes.

"Don't get any funny ideas," I warn him, keeping my voice low. "Remember our arrangement."

Killian chuckles. "Funny ideas? Christ, Baryshev.

We're going to be partners soon." He takes another sip, studying me.

"And before you say anything, I'm more concerned about pissing that wife of yours off more than I am about doing something stupid to you.

She must be an extraordinary woman for you to come to me twice now in such a short amount of time. "

He's not wrong. But I won't give him that satisfaction just yet.

"You're probably more concerned about the men I have positioned all around the Shamrock," I counter. "Just in case we need to shoot our way out."

He smiles, unfazed. "Won't need to worry about that. It'll be quick and easy." Killian leans forward, his eyes suddenly serious. "But still. When this is over, I get what I want. Taras' Brighton Beach holdings. Every last one of them."

"You will," I tell him without hesitation. "I'm a man of my word."

Killian nods, seemingly satisfied. His phone buzzes and he fishes it out of his pocket.

"Looks like they're pulling up, Baryshev," he says. "Both of them, just like you said."

No, I think. Just like Indigo said.

"Ready to put on the show of our lives?" He asks me.

"Let's just get this over with so I can go home."

A few minutes later, one of Killian's men walks into the office with Taras and Valentina following closely behind him.

I can't help but bristle when I see the two of them.

Despite his age, Taras is still a dangerous man.

Unlike other pakhans who have let years of boozing and womanizing turn themselves into a fat slobbering mess, Taras has kept himself fit and strong.

Even now in his early 70s, he still looks like he can out run, out lift, and out fuck someone almost half his age.

But it's Mother who draws my attention and anger. She still has that haughty look in her eyes.

And when her eyes see me, they hate.

This woman once sang lullabies to me in Russian helped send men to burn down my home where my pregnant wife was. I wonder if she feels any amount of sorrow for the death of her favorite son.

Or if Vassily was just another pawn to be discarded when the time came.

My hands flex against the fake restraints, and I have to consciously stop myself from breaking free and lunging at her throat. Not yet. This has to be done right.

Taras steps forward, his weathered face scanning the room before settling on Killian.

"O'Shea," he greets with a nod, his voice carrying the gravelly weight of decades of command. "Thank you for arranging this meet."

"I caught this piece of shit coming to me earlier this morning. Said he needed my help after what happened last night." Killian raises his glass toward Taras. "Well, as it turns out, he wasn't in much of a position to make requests these days. And I figured you wanted first crack at him."

If I didn't know that he was already on my side, I might almost believe that he's ready to hand me over to Taras.

But truth be told, there's just something a little too oily in the way Killian talks. It sounds almost too convincing, and a drop of doubt rolls down into my stomach as I test the restraints again just to make sure that they're still breakable.

Taras grunts.

"Don't act so fucking generous, O'Shea. We have a score to settle as well." He takes a step forward, voice dropping dangerously. "I haven't forgotten the part you played in my Grisha's death."

The friendly mask on Killian's face slips slightly.

"Your boy disrespected me in front of my men," Killian retorts, setting his drink down with a sharp click against the desk. "Honor dictated action. And I had no fucking idea Baryshev here would go so far."

I keep my face neutral, but inwardly I'm gauging every reaction. The tension between Taras and Killian is real. And if Grisha got his shit temper and hotheadedness from his father, then Taras is liable to do something stupid.

"It wasn't just him," Mother says, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. She hasn't taken her eyes off me. "It was that whore of his. She convinced him to kill your son."

Anger surges through me and my blood boils at Mother calling Indigo a whore. Before I can say anything, Taras walks over, looking down at me with cold, calculating eyes.

Then without warning, his fist connects with my face.

The blow comes harder than expected, and I taste copper as blood fills my mouth. My head snaps to the side from the force.

"What the fuck, Volkov!" Killian jumps up from behind his desk. "That wasn't part of the arrangement!"

"You said I could have him," Taras growls, eyes never leaving mine.

Killian moves forward, face reddening. "The deal was for you to take him into custody to do what you want, not make a fucking mess in my office!"

Taras turns toward him, face contorting with rage. "When you lose a son and a daughter to the same piece of shit, you don't give a fuck about making a mess."

I notice Taras's hand moving toward his back pocket. He's reaching for a knife.

Time's up.

No more fucking around.

I flex my wrists, and break the fake restraints with a quick snap. Taras's eyes widen as I lunge forward, grabbing his arm just as his fingers close around the handle of a switchblade.

Our eyes lock as I twist his wrist to force the knife from his grip.

He looks genuinely shocked, then his gaze shifts to Killian with dawning comprehension.

"You fucking two-sided cheat!" Taras roars at Killian.

Killian calmly finishes his whiskey, and sets the empty glass down with a soft clink.

"It's just good business," he says with a shrug, then gives me a nod.

I kick the knife out of Taras' reach, and my free hand pulls out the gun tucked in my waistband.

Taras tries to break free from my grip, but I slam him against the desk, knocking the wind out of him. Before he can recover, I shove the barrel of my gun between his teeth, metal scraping against enamel. His eyes bulge with fear and rage.

"I've waited a long fucking time to do this," I growl, pressing the barrel deeper until he gags.

Taras makes a desperate gurgling sound, trying to form words around the gun. His hands claw at my arm, but I'm beyond caring. I think of Indigo in that burning house, of my brother's body consumed by flames. Of my child who almost died before taking their first breath.

I pull the trigger.

The back of Taras' head explodes in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter. The report of the gun is deafening in the small office. His body goes slack instantly, and slides down to the floor with a heavy thud.

"For fuck’s sake!" Killian shouts. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get brains out of carpet?"

I ignore him, turning around to find my mother already bolting from the room.

I'm after her in an instant, blood pounding in my ears as I give chase.

Mother doesn't get very far. One of Killian's men grabs her arm just as she reaches gets out into the club, and stops her escape cold.

She struggles briefly, and like a beat dog that knows there is no escape, she stops fighting once she accepts that she can't break free.

I nod at the guard and he lets her go. She collapses into a nearby chair, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Then, she looks up at me.

For just a moment, her mask slips completely.

I catch a glimpse of the woman who used to tuck me in at night, who fed me one spoonful of soup after another when I was sick with fever as a child.

The mother who once held my small hand in hers as we walked along the beaches of Brooklyn in the summertime before Father's betrayals hardened her heart.

But the moment passes quickly, as her face twists with ugly hatred. Her eyes narrow as she spits out her words in Russian.

"You picked a whore over the bratva."

I hear the accusation, but the words hold no power anymore. They're empty and meaningless now, just like her.

I raise my gun and aim it directly at her face, my hand steady.

"Vasya loved you," I whisper. "He adored you. He wanted to do anything and everything to please you. And you let that bitch Lola kill him. All because you couldn't accept that I chose Indigo."

Mother's chin lifts defiantly, even with death staring her in the face.

"Your whore was an outsider," she hisses.

I shake my head slowly, finger tightening on the trigger.

"Lola was an outsider too. She wasn't family."

Mother's lip curls in disgust. "But she was bratva. And that's all that matters in this world."

"VASYA WAS YOUR SON! I AM YOUR SON!" I bellow at Mother, my voice cracking with emotion I didn't know still lived inside me.

The gun in my hand feels heavier with each passing second. Something hot and wet slides down my cheek, and I realize I'm crying.

Mother sits perfectly still, like a statue carved from ice. Her eyes are fixed on me with a mixture of contempt and judgement. Even now, when she can see just how much it hurts me to do this, I know there's only one thought running through her head.

A pakhan doesn't cry.

How did things get to this point? When did her hatred for Father extend to us? I know this didn't happen all at once. Hate like this can only happen bit by bit over the years. It starts with the cold shoulders. The disapproving glances. The way she'd compare us to him whenever we disappointed her.

And even though I'm holding the gun at her face as her pakhan, a deeper part of me—that same boy who used to hold her hand on the beaches of Brooklyn—screams silently: why did you stop loving us?

Why can't I bring myself to say those words even though I know I won't ever get another chance to ask her again?

Mother looks at me, and then she closes her eyes. A single tear rolls out from the corner of her eyes.

"Do it, synochka." she says, her voice steady. "Do what you have to do."

My hand squeezes the trigger, but I still can't pull it all the way. The question burns on my tongue like acid. I have to do it. But I have to know as well.

When did I close my eyes? When did the tears start streaming down my face? I take a trembling breath and finally ask her the words clawing for escape against my throat.

"When did it happen, mamechka? When did you stop loving your sons?"

Mother takes a slow shuddering breath, and another tear rolls down her face, leaving a trail of mascara behind.

"I never stopped loving the three of you," she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I knew that the bratva must come first. That is the only law of our world. Love is the death of duty, Tolya. A pakhan cannot do his duty if his mind is clouded by love."

My grip on the gun tightens. "That's not true," I tell her, my voice steadier than I feel. "You were blinded to this truth because of your hatred of Father. You let it consume you until there was nothing left."

"Maybe," she admits softly. "But I've lived for so long with that hatred that I can't change it now." She opens her eyes fully. "Do it, Tolya. End my life, so that I might go apologize to my Vasya in person. And give my love to Romochka when you see him, will you?"

"I will, mamechka."

"Khorosho. Now, don't make me wait any longer."

The world narrows to just her face and the weight of the gun in my hand. I think of Indigo, of our unborn child. I think of my little brother, who's dead because of this woman's schemes.

I think of the boy I once was, who only ever wanted his mother's love.

Love isn't the death of duty. Indigo's proven that to me. And I will not let my duty to the bratva tear my family apart.

I pull the trigger.