Page 120 of His Darkest Obsession
Instead, I feel hollow.
And I know why.
Somewhere in the last four weeks, I stopped caring about what the Bratva wants or needs. And at the same time, the only thing I want is to make Indigo happy. To make her forget everything from her past. To help her move on.
Getting that phone call from Bennet isn't going to do that.
If anything, it's just going to make things worse.
I know exactly how this call with Bennet will go. He'll spew the usual politician's bullshit about his glorious election victory, then acknowledge that none of it could have happened without me.
And that's the fucking thing, isn't it?
I don'twantto hear Bennet thank me out loud for helping him win. I don't want to acknowledge any of it. Even the thought of having this conversation feels like I'm about to betray Indigo. Every time I think about Bennet's voice on the other end of that line, I remember the terror in Indigo's eyes at the gala. I remember her scars. I remember her tears.
The vodka suddenly tastes bitterer than usual in my mouth.
Roma keeps talking, something about potential men we should place in positions of power under the new Bennet administration. How it would shore up support against the Volkovs in this fucking war I started.
"...and with Ustinov heading the licensing board, we can ensure our legitimate businesses remain untouched while we squeeze the Volkovs out of theirs. And God knows we need that help right now. Are you even listening?"
"Hm." I nod, not really giving a shit about any of this right now.
"You do know the war's not going well, right?" Roma sighs. "It's not terrible. But it's not great either. Bodies are dropping all across the city. The Volkovs have lost more men than us, but just barely. I don't want to have to get into a war of attrition if push comes to shove, and we need these appointments."
I nod as the words pass over me like feathers on the wind. A few weeks ago, I'd be enthusiastically trying to figure out how we might be able to gain an edge now that we have Bennet in our pocket.
But the moment I think about it, all I feel is this heavy exhaustion settling in.
I know I should care more. Ihaveto care more, as the pakhan. Because even as detached as I am right now, I have that uncomfortable sensation in my gut telling me that there's real tension boiling beneath the surface. And sooner or later, that surface is about to break.
And then, all hell is going to break loose.
But my mind drifts back to Indigo. To her warmth in my bed. To the way she gasped and begged this morning. To the way she looks at me like I’m the only one who can shield her from the world.
Blyat…
The glass rises to my lips again as Roma drones on, and this time, I down the entire thing and let the vodka burn a path straight down into my stomach.
I fucking hate this. All of it. The scheming, the backstabbing, and the duplicity—this endless game of chess where the pieces are people's lives.
A long time ago, some Italian said that when the game is over, the king and pawn will go into the same box.
What he didn't acknowledge is the fact that inthisgame I'm playing, the player is chained to the board.
And I can't fucking walk away.
Yet even so, for a brief, indulgent moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to do exactly that. Hand over the reins to Roma. He's capable enough. Take Indigo somewhere far from here. Maybe one of those islands in the Pacific where no one would look for us. Or a cabin in the mountains away from it all.
A place where the blood and bodies and bullshit of New York and our past will never reach us.
I almost smile at the thought.
But it's just a dream. An unrealistic fantasy. The kind of fairy tale you tell children before they learn how the world really works.
I can't walk away from the bratva. No one ever does. And if I tried? They'd come for me. Drag me back like a dog on a leash. And the first thing the bratva does when it pulls you back is to remove whatever tempted you away in the first place.
Which means Indigo.
