Page 80 of His Darkest Obsession

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 takesus 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 themis 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.