Page 32 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

The last time Anatoly stood in that door way a week ago, he’d walked in like he owned everything in the world, me included.

He staked his ownership in the best possible way. Left my skin sizzling with his eyes and hands and mouth. Made me sit here alone with a head full of conflicting thoughts, and an empty pulsing ache between my legs that wanted.

Back then, it’s easier to see him as nothing but a monster. But now, I’ve caught two glimpses of the man underneath.

The first was after he draped his jacket around me on the staircase. Once he did that, I found it hard to continue wanting to defy him.

The second was after both of us came apart in each other’s hands in the study. And as we sat there panting in the heady afterglow of what we did, I knew that I never wanted to defy him.

And when Svetlana walks past him to leave the two of us alone, I have the distinct feeling that he’s about to give me this third glimpse.

I have the funny feeling that once I see this third glimpse, I won’t ever want to defy him again.

"I have something for you."

Anatoly's words cut through the tension between us as he approaches. Instead of backing away, I stand up and walk towards him. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes. But it’s not for me.

"What is it?"

"Roma found the cops who arrested your father, and I have them somewhere secure for you to verify."

My heart stops. Air rushes from my lungs. It’s as if the entire world suddenly slowed down, and I can’t help but reach out and place my hand against him to brace myself. The moment I touch him, he pulls in a sharp inhale to fill his lungs with the air that left mine.

"Where?" My voice is strained and distant, like it belongs to someone else.

"A butcher shop basement in Staten Island." Anatoly wraps his large hands around mine and warmth surges through up my arm until it penetrates all the way into my heart. "We can go pay them a visit now if you want.”

I know what he’s really telling me. I should feel horrified at the unspoken implications. But I don’t. Instead, all I feel is a dark satisfaction unfurling inside me.

"Yes." I whisper.

"Are you sure, britvochka?" Anatoly's voice turns gentle as his hand gives mine a squeeze. “Once you do this, there’s no turning back.”

I press my palm deeper into the hard ridges of his body, feeling the heat blanket me from above and below. He’s still trying to save my soul. But what if I don’t want my soul to be saved? What if I want to indulge in this dark fantasy that I’ve harbored for two years?

"I’m sure." I look up at him. "I want to watch them die."

Something dark flutters across Anatoly's face. A part approval. A part pride. And another part that looks suspiciously like apprehension, like he can recognize that I’m turning into something unexpected—even for him.

"Then let's not keep them waiting."

His hand pulls mine off his chest, our fingers lace together, and he leads me from my bedroom. I can feel the hard metal band of the ring on his finger, and I look down at the wedding band on mine as we walk.

I’m a pakhan’s wife now, and it’s time I start acting like one.

It takes us almost three hours to get to the butcher shop in Staten Island.

The entire trip down had been in silence, and we kept our hands tightly clasped in each other as we drove.

Our hands reluctantly leave each other when the car comes to a stop.

Anatoly walks over to my side, opens the door, and helps me out.

I slip my hand into his and feel the warmth chasing away the cold in my heart.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks one final time.

"Yes."

He nods and walks over to the back entrance, and pulls out a small key from his pocket to unlock the cast-iron sidewalk cellar doors. The hinges scream as he pulls open the doors to reveal a set of stairs descending into the dark.

Fetid humid air rises to greet us. For a moment, I think that I might chicken out. Anatoly turns to give me one final glance. I nod and take a deep breath to steady myself for what I’m about to see.

Breathe, Indigo. Just breathe.

In. Out.

You can do this.

I take a step. Then another. And another. Each step downward feels like descending into my own darkest thoughts. Behind me, Anatoly yanks down the cellar doors to close them. Darkness wraps around us, and he guides me down the narrow steps until we stand side by side.

There’s the unmistakable sound of soft groans, and the putrid air is tinged with a hint of something metallic. Blood. I think. My stomach clenches. My heart races.

But not from fear.

Anatoly tugs on a string. A dim lightbulb turns on and casts soft orange light around the confined space. In the center of the room, two men sit bound to chairs, back-to-back. One of them is older than the other. Their faces—bloody and swollen—hangs low against their chest.

But even underneath all the blood, I can recognize them.

It's them.

The same ones who were in that police cruiser that would always slow down next to me in the weeks I returned to Columbia after that awful summer.

The same ones that sneered at my father as they cracked their batons down on my father’s face before dragging him away.

The same ones who told my mother that if she wants to complain, she can go take it up with the city.

"That's them," I whisper, my voice strange and hollow to my own ears.

The younger one lifts his head at the sound of my voice, his left eye swollen shut but the right one widens in recognition.

"You," he croaks.

My fingers tighten against Anatoly’s without conscious thought, clutching tightly as I stare at the man who helped destroy my family.

Something fierce and terrible burns in my chest, and only a single word falls from my trembling lips.

“Me.”

Anatoly releases my hand and I turn to look at him as he takes off his jacket with precision and starts rolling up his sleeves.

There’s a grim determination in his handsome face, and the dangerous glint in his eyes return.

The soft light paints the basement with the same dim orange of what I imagine the fires of hell to look like.

And in this hell, Anatoly is the devil.

My devil.

He gives me one final look before his eyes harden. He walks over to the two bound men and addresses the older man on the left.

“What’s your name?”

“Corey Parker.”

“And you?” Anatoly nudges the younger man on the right with a foot.

“Dylan Green.”

"Did the two of you arrest Malcolm Taylor?"

Parker’s split lip trembles as he answers. "Never heard that name before."

The lie hangs in the air for only a heartbeat. Then Anatoly's fist draws back and connects with Parker’s jaw. Bone crunches against bone, and a wet thud echoes in the tiny basement. Parker’s head snaps sideways and spits. Blood splatters on the ground, and a tooth clatters after.

A savage approval claws at my chest, and I feel my own hands ball into fists as I watch.

"What about you, Green?" Anatoly forces the younger man to look at him. His voice remains unchanged in spite of the violence and the barely restrained anger I can practically feel rolling off his body. "Malcolm Taylor. Two years ago."

"We arrest dozens of scumbags every week,” Green says. “Can't remember every—"

Anatoly doesn’t let him finish and slams a fist into his stomach. The chair rattles from the force of the blow, and Green gasps, struggling to breathe as blood drips from his chin.

"But you remember her." Anatoly grabs Green’s face and forces him to look at me. "Now why is that?"

"Fuck if I know," Green croaks, blood trickling from his lip.

This time, Anatoly doesn't use his fist. He pulls a knife from inside his jacket. The blade glints in the soft orange light, and then it cuts a dark red line along the man's thigh.

Green howls in pain. Blood stains his pants.

I should look away. I should feel sick. But I don't. I want them to hurt. I need them to hurt.

Anatoly places the knife against Green’s ear. I realize what he’s about to do a moment before he does it. The knife flashes again, and Green’s ear falls on the ground in silence as a blood trickles down the side of his head.

"Lie to me again," Anatoly says. “And I’ll take your eye.”

Yes… I can hear my mind whisper even as my stomach starts churning at the violence. But I refuse to look away.

Green spits a mouthful of blood onto the ground. "We were just following orders."

Anger burns through me, hot and bitter, and I can’t stop myself from stepping forward. Anatoly shifts to give me room and I stand in front of Green and look down at his mutilated face.

"Whose orders?" My voice is steady and cold, surprising even myself. "Who told you to take my parents from me?"

"You know damn well whose order it was," he whispers.

“I do.” I lean down, close enough to smell the sweat and blood on him. "But I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you admit it."

Anatoly turns towards me but doesn’t stop me from talking. My hands are shaking. There’s a surge of power from watching these broken and bleeding men recognize that even though Anatoly is tearing them apart with his hands, it’s me who holds his leash.

Somewhere deep down, a part of me is terrified how much I'm enjoying this. But that part is nothing compared to the delight blooming in my heart.

“What does it fucking matter if I tell you their name?” Green pants. “It won’t change the past. It won’t bring either of your parents back to life. And no matter what I say, I know I won’t be walking out of this basement.”

“No, you won’t,” I admit. “But you can clear your conscience of your wrongs.”

“My wrongs?” Green spits, sneering. “You have two police officers chained up in a fucking basement, being tortured by this Russian prick, and you dare talk to me about my wrongs?”

“My parents were innocent! They didn’t hurt anyone!” I scream. “And you took them away from me because the only crime they committed was standing up for me! You owe me that much to say the name of the person who gave you your orders!”

Anatoly’s eyes flash towards mine for a moment, but I don’t meet them. Instead, I focus my anger and my rage to Dylan Green, to that hateful face of his, and to the sneer that still clings to his battered lips.

“And after I tell you, what happens next?” he asks and turns his eyes towards Anatoly. “Is he going to kill me?”

“Yes.” Both of us say at the same time.

“But I’ll let you die with some fucking dignity.” Anatoly adds.

“Dignity.” Parker scoffs behind Green, and I snap my eyes towards the back of his head. “There’s nothing dignified about any of this. About what we did. Or about what the two of you are about to do.”

I walk away from Green and round the face Parker. “Do you really have no regrets about what you’ve done? What you’ve helped cover up?”

Parker coughs up another mouthful of blood. “You want to hear his fucking name?”

“I do.”

“Fine.” He nods. “It was Grant Bennet who told us to go pick up your piece-of-shit father.”

“My father was a good man.” Hot tears well up in my eyes as I snarl at him through gritted teeth. “An innocent man!”

“Doesn’t fucking matter.” Parker shakes his head. “He squealed like a bitch in the end.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and feel the hot tears running down my cheeks. But Parker keeps talking, his raspy voice scraping like sandpaper against my ears in the enclosed hell that we’re all trapped in.

“And your mother didn’t do much better.”

My eyes fly open and the floor starts spinning under me at his words. “What?”

“We took turns.” He smiles nastily. “Before I put a bullet through that bitch’s head.”

My legs give out and I collapse to the floor sticky with blood. I try to breathe, but it’s like some invisible monster has its hand wrapped tightly around my neck and squeezing it shut. Black dots start forming in my vision and the world spins out from under me.

Mom… Dad… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.

"What's the matter, you little Bratva whore?” Parker’s voice rattles. “Can't stomach what you asked for?"

I close my eyes and let the insult washes over me as hot tears fall from my eyes.

It’s strange how the words that should sting just feel... empty right now. After everything I've survived, from the crashing cycles of the events that led to the death of my parents to this awful revelation that I never knew about, this crude label from a man at the door of death means nothing.

But not to Anatoly. "What the fuck did you call my wife?"

"You heard me, you Russian prick." Parker’s bravado doesn’t fade. “I called her a fucking whore.”

Anatoly leans in and the knife digs just a hair deeper to draw more blood.

“Nobody calls my wife a whore.” His voice is cold and even.

The knife rises, and then it descends. Again and again and again. Blood splatters. Parker screams. And then his voice goes silent. But the knife keeps rising and descending. Keeps plunging down with that squelching wet noise.

“NOBODY!” He stabs with each word. “CALLS! MY! WIFE! A! WHORE!”

Metal scrapes against bone, and I look on with fascination as face of the man who murdered both my parents turn into a bloody red ruin. Slowly, I get up onto rubbery knees. Blood sprays across Anatoly’s shirt, up his sleeves, and stains it from the pristine white into dark scarlet.

He doesn't seem to notice or care as he loses himself in his implacable fury.

"Tolya," I whisper, but he doesn't stop.

Not until I reach out and reach up to touch his shoulder. The knife freezes in mid-air and he turns around to face me. Blood covers his face. Anger and anguish war for control in his eyes. And when they find me, I can see tears shimmering in their blue depths.

"It's done,” I whisper. “He’s dead.”

Anatoly lowers the knife slowly, his chest heaving as he takes one heavy breath after another. He reaches behind his back, pulls out his gun, and presses it into the back of Green’s head.

Green starts stammering. Pathetic noises about how he was just following orders. The words stumble over each other in his panicked desperation.

Anatoly doesn’t squeeze the trigger. He just looks at me, and stares as if he’s giving me one last chance to save my soul.

But I don’t want my soul to be saved.

So, I meet his gaze steadily, and give him a small, deliberate nod.

The gunshot is deafening.