Page 4 of His Darkest Obsession
“One.”
“No fucking way.” Roma shakes his head. “You’re telling me that he’s ready to hand you the keys to the fucking city if you just make one problem go away for him?”
"I am." I straighten my jacket as I get ready to leave.
"Even for you, Tolya…" Roma leans back. “That’s…”
“Inspired?”
“Not the word I would’ve used. Who and where?”
"A hairdresser at a barbershop." I pull my keys from my pocket. "And as luck would have it, it’s all on our territory in the Bronx."
"A hairdresser at a Bronx barbershop?" Roma's voice rises with disbelief. "Whoever he is?—”
“She.” I correct him.
“Whoeversheis.” Roma acknowledges. “She must have some good fucking dirt. You know this sounds almost too good to be true, right?"
When he puts it like that? Yeah, it does.
My gaze drifts to the crumpled wedding invitation in the trash.
But crazier things have happened. And one thing is for sure.
Between a slow inevitable death for our Bratva and a chance to break free from the shitty deals that Father signed on our behalf, I know what choice I’d rather take.
The thought of marrying Lola makes my skin crawl. To say I dislike everything about my fiancée would be an understatement.
I fucking hate her.
And her fucking family.
Everything from their false smiles, their shitty attitude, to the way they’re practically salivating at the thought of lootingourmoney to fundtheirfailed causes—from wars to elections to multiple failed gambling parlors. Seriously, how the fuck do you go bankrupt running a gambling parlor out of fucking Flushing?
I'd rather marry a nobody off the street.
Someone with no connections. No power plays. No hidden agendas. Anything is better than tying myself to that failure of a family.
If this single hit pans out, then I won't have to.
Maybe I can actually choose for myself.
The thought feels dangerous. Forbidden. Like something Father would have beaten out of me if he was still alive.
But he's not.
And I'm not him.
"I'll call you when it’s done." I tell Roma as I head for the door.
2
INDIGO
“You sure you’llbe alright closing up on your own, Indie?” My boss Marcus Jackson asks me as he looks back at me from the door of the barbershop.
“I’ll be fine, Marcus,” I tell him. “You know Mrs. Diaz can’t unload those boxes on her own.”
