Page 5 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

ANATOLY

Of all the people who I thought I had to kill, Indigo Taylor was the last person I expected.

When I walked in, she greeted me automatically without turning around. I got a good look at her fucking ass sashaying rhythmically with every sweep of the broom, and it sent a shot of heat running straight to my dick.

Blyat… I was staring at her ass for so long that I’d almost forgotten what I came in to do.

Then she turned around, and I no longer wanted to do what I came in to do.

Bronzed skin warmed by a golden undertone that emphasizes her full pink lips. Long blue hair framing her innocent looking face with a few errant strands that falls over one eye. All I wanted to do in that moment was to tuck it behind her ear before I wrap the rest around my fist.

And her eyes. Fuck, her eyes.

They’re a soft hazel. And when they narrowed in the exact way I like out of wariness, another small twitch of heat had run down to my dick.

Her hands were soft yet steady when she lathered the soap on my face and neck.

I could smell the light and floral scent that tumbled down from her as she started to shave me.

Our eyes never left each other, and I was determined to keep holding her gaze.

To keep looking at those soft hazel eyes and feel her breath tickling the top of my head.

To savor every moment I had with her before I did the unthinkable.

I trace my thumb against the thin red line her razor left on my neck.

She tried to kill me.

And then someone else came to kill her. Someone that I didn’t know. Someone who I grabbed shortly after leaving her side. And once I did, I used the same razor she cut me with to peel the confession out of him that he wasn’t aiming for me, but for her…

Looks like Grant Bennet promised his friendship to a hell of a lot more people.

Which means Indigo Taylor alive is far more useful to me than Indigo Taylor dead.

It hadn’t taken me all that long to track her down. Partly because the Bronx is the stronghold of Baryshev territory, and partly because Indigo happens to live just ten blocks away from the barbershop.

My fingers drum against my thigh as I watch the apartment building and repeat her name under my breath like a prayer as dawn pries apart the sky with rosy fingers.

Indigo Taylor.

It’s time to move.

The sun creeps higher, burning away the last traces of night. There’s a black SUV is parked around the corner, and two men sit in the front seats.

More hitmen. I'm sure of it.

With any luck, I might be able to get to her before they can.

Something moves in one of the SUVs. One of the hitmen stretches and yawns.

Fucking sloppy.

I step out of the shadows, cross the street, and text Roma to ready the car to come get me. The hitmen notice me immediately. Their postures stiffen, and I see them shifting in their car as they reach for concealed weapons. I fix them with a cold stare as I approach the building's entrance.

A clear message: She's mine. To capture or to kill. Touch her, and you die.

An old man shuffles down the stairs with a newspaper tucked under his arm. Perfect timing. I catch the door before it closes and slip inside.

The stairwell smells like every walkup in the Bronx: something old, something moldy, something that needs more than ten layers of paint that every cheap landlord slaps on top of the walls.

My footsteps echo off concrete walls as I climb to the third floor until I find her door.

I try the handle. Locked.

Not that a lock has ever stopped me.

One solid kick, and the door splinters inward with a satisfying crack to reveal a small two-bedroom apartment. Not exactly a rarity in this part of the Bronx. The inside is quiet except for the sound of my shoes on the worn linoleum floor. But what intrigues me are the bare walls.

No pictures. No art. Just patches where frames once hung, their ghostly outlines darker than the paint that used to hide under them.

A second-hand couch with a throw blanket draped over worn cushions dominates the living room.

The TV stand's empty, the TV that used to sit atop it probably sold a long time ago.

Even the kitchen is sparse. Just a few mismatched plates in the dish rack, generic brand cereal boxes lined up on top of the fridge.

But the fridge’s face is blank. There’s nothing personal on it at all.

This place feels... hollow. Like someone's trying to erase themselves.

I open up the fridge and find a small tupperware of half-eaten mashed potatoes. But other than some basic groceries, there’s nothing interesting.

I make my way down the short hallway to investigate the rooms.

The bathroom is small and cramped. When I open the vanity, my eyes are drawn to the bottle of blue hair dye inside it. It's half empty, and the label looks worn from handling. Midnight Indigo.

She lives here alright.

I put the hair dye back, walk out of the bathroom, and push open the door to one of the bedrooms.

Choking dust greets me from the moment I walk in, and I suppress a cough. It’s obvious that nobody's been in here for a while. The bed is neatly made and there's a pair of worn pink slippers by the foot of the bed.

I don't like it. It feels like I'm stepping into a time capsule.

No, I think as I take another step into the undisturbed room.

Like I'm stepping into a tomb.

Looking carefully around, I notice that there's a single cardboard box tucked in the corner that doesn't have dust on it. Curiosity pushes me to open it up, and my intrigue intensifies the moment that I do.

A single Columbia University sweatshirt, some course catalogs, and a class schedule from two years ago written in neat handwriting. But again, nothing that offers anything about her identity. No acceptance letter. No homework. No exam papers. No pictures. Not even a student ID.

Weird.

Whatever Indigo Taylor is hiding, she's done a damn good job of it.

I close the box up and walk out of the dusty bedroom.

This second bedroom is different. There are signs of life pulsing through it. Several blouses are draped haphazardly over chair backs. There's a stack of books on one of the desks.

Two single beds occupy opposite walls. Two desks face the window, and they could not be more different.

One's covered in a mess of papers, and splayed open textbooks.

Pens and pencil are scattered across the surface.

The other one is pristine. Everything lined up at right angles, color-coded sticky notes arranged in neat rows.

I pick up a scent in the air. Something light and floral.

The same scent that clung to her hair when she was beneath me at the barbershop, and it’s coming from the neat desk.

On the tidy surface, there’s a to-do list written in precise handwriting:

Go through college applications with Amara

Schedule Amara's dentist appointment

Help Amara with calculus homework

Amara, Amara, Amara.

But nothing about herself.

The messy desk, which I assume must be Amara’s, is a shrine to typical teenage debris.

Crumpled up papers, random doodles, graded math homework, history notes, a biology exam.

Sorting through the piles of loose papers, my fingers brush leather and I find a small journal, cover worn soft from handling.

I open it up to the first page, and find that it's dated to June 19th two years ago.

Mom says that I should keep a journal just to help me process my own thoughts about everything lately.

But I feel like it would be easier if the three of them would just talk to me instead of keeping me in the dark.

Like I'm just a stupid kid. I'm fifteen now, I should be allowed to know what's going on in this family.

I flip a few pages forward, past the typical fifteen-year-old angst about boys and music and clothes she wants to buy. The entry on August 7th catches my eye.

Miels is crying again tonight. She's been doing that a lot this summer.

Ever since she got that internship. She pretends like I can't see or hear her cry, but I do.

I wish there's something I can do to help, but every time I try to talk to her, she just shuts down and has that look in her eyes again.

Like she's staring off into space. Mom and Dad have been staying up late at night with her, and Dad just looks angry most of the time.

I want to ask them about what happened or what I can do to help.

But I know they'll just tell me to be there for Miels. Ugh! It's not fair!

Miels? I ask myself. I thought her name was Indigo.

I flip through the pages to another entry dated to August 9th, hoping for answers but finding only more questions.

Ryan came by today to see Miels while Mom and Dad were out of the house.

That dude gives me the ick. I don't know what Miels sees in him.

Yeah, he's a good-looking guy, but I don't trust him.

It's like he practices everything he says and does in front of the mirror before doing it.

He's so effing fake! At least Miels finally told him to get the fuck out of here.

She was shouting as he left. I didn't catch any of it.

But afterwards, she shut herself in the bathroom and ran the shower until Mom and Dad came home.

I thought Dad would be mad, but he just had that same look in his eyes as Miels did all for the past few weeks.

And Mom… Mom is starting to cry at night too.

I have to be strong for the three of them. Someone has to be.

My jaw clenches.

Did Ryan hurt Indigo? Is he the reason why she was crying?

I push on, and read one entry after another. Each one cryptically telling me that something must've happened to her on that summer two years ago. But whatever it is, Amara either doesn’t know, or knows better than to write them down.

And if she did write about them, they’re not here for me to read.

Because there are several pages that have been torn out.

Then, there's a single short entry dated back to August 11th.

Miels tells us that she wants us to call her Indigo from now.

That it's not safe for us to use her real name anymore.

When I said I don't want to, she got scary with me.

Like… really scary. I guess it makes sense that she would want to change her name.

Especially after what happened to Dad. I hoped that Mom would at least put up a fight about it, but she just went along with Miels.

Said that if she wants to be called Indigo, she can.

I asked her if it's alright that I still call her Miels every once in a while, and she didn't say anything. But she nodded after a while, and I guess that’s good enough for now.

There are more torn out pages over the ensuing months, and then the journal becomes something much more mundane. Almost like it's a deliberate choice. I do my best to connect the dots, but I can't. Too much is missing for me to do that.

I close the journal and place it back under the pile of papers.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaks behind me.

Someone is here.

I walk out from the bedroom, hand on my gun, and that's when I see her.

Indigo.

Her blue hair is unmistakable, and so are those hazel-green eyes. They're wide with shock, pupils dilated in fear as she takes in the sight of the door that's been kicked open.

Then, she notices my presence and turns towards me.

Something electric sparks between us in that frozen moment. Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, and my own breathing syncs with hers. The same magnetic pull I felt in the barbershop draws me toward her, but I force myself to stay still.

Her lips part, and I know what's coming next.

She's about to scream.