Page 75 of Destined for the Devil
I wondered what he was so intensely missing in his life that he engaged in this shit, a few years away from turning forty. We did all this when we were so young and stupid, but not now.
Roman’s suspicions about Sergei lived rent-free in my head for the next few days. I’d met Natasha a handful of times, and she was always a lovely, kind, and beautiful girl. Like Roman, she had raven-colored hair and fair skin and was always respectful and a bit shy.
Unlike Roman, though, she engaged in nothing illegal. Being abandoned by her father so early on and the loss of her mother had taken a toll on her. She seemed very cautious and risk averse.
Which was why her death raised so many questions. As Roman later discovered, everything was off on the night of her tragic demise. She was out with somenewgirlfriends, celebrating a birthday or something of the sort, but instead of taking the car and security that Roman hadalwaysprovided for her, she jumped into a random Uber with some friends. None of us recognized those girls.
Roman managed to piece it all together from the security footage of the restaurant and nightclub, which he rewatched over and over again.He then ransacked absolutely every single fucking database to find that car and the owner…but it had vanished, never appearing on any records.
What was also incredibly suspicious, of course, was how laconic her texts were. Wasn't she going out with friends? Girls send hundreds of texts, but her phone didn't contain much at all—a few phone calls and some photos. The sad truth was that her phone had been in so many hands before it landed in Roman's that it was impossible to really take anything seriously.
Every single friend that Roman could locate from that evening was interrogated. He threatened the restaurant owner, who handed over all security footage and cooperated without question. There was a private investigator who followed whatever was left of the trail. But it all led to nothing.
After Natasha’s body was found, Roman worked backward to find the man who ended her life and who ordered the job. But it turned out he was searching in all the wrong places. The snake was cozied up right on his chest all these years.
I made the journey to Natasha’s funeral and witnessed, with my own eyes, that Sergei wasdestroyed.He wailed at her coffin like he was burying the love of his life. He held onto the casket, tears streaming down his face while he kissed the wooden top, not letting it go, afraid that she would be placed in the ground and ripped away from him forever.
The funeral had an aura of sinister darkness about it. Hundreds of people showed up with flowers, and a huge crowd gathered at the grave while the priest read the last prayer in Russian, barely audible over the noise of so many crying voices.
Roman stood planted to the ground, pale like a ghost and in a state of stupor, staring ahead and unable to fully understand what was happening. And then there was Sergei, pouring out his soul for Roman's sister.
I was aware that they had all been friends for a long time, but Sergei's reaction to her death didn't align. She was his friend's sister, not his. She wasn't his wife; she wasn't his girlfriend. Unless…shewasthe love of his life.
I could see how Sergei would want to claim her for himself. And I could also imagine how repulsed she would be by that. From there, it would be easy to extrapolate that Sergei could decide that if he couldn't have her...nobody could.
36
New York 2.0
Isla
Iknewforsurenow what it felt like to have your heart ripped out of your chest. My breakup with Roman was as painful as all the awful things that had happened to me combined.
I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I only cried and cried until my eyes were raw.
Fuck. Me. I had theworstluck in the world. To fall in love with a guy whokilledmy parents?! Not only that, to know that he was also kind and loving, vulnerable, tender, and caring? It was undiluted torture of the worst kind. I couldn’t reconcile the Roman I knew with the version that planned and executed the murder of my family.
I was stuck on his last words—that my dad had blood on his hands. I suffered from that thought, and while I tried to convince myself that Roman was only trying to justify his atrocious actions, I knew that doubt crawled into a small part of my brain.
What if Roman was right? What if my dad used the same tactics as him? Was my dad a killer as well? I didn’t want to believe that.
Icouldn’t.
My dad was a soft-spoken and kind gentleman. Kindness reflected in his eyes, and he always volunteered in our community. Ander C&C sponsored and supported kids' sports clubs, seniors' events, school fairs, you name it. What’s more, my father was a very present and involved parent. He always showed up to mine and my brother’s extracurricularsand school plays; he was there for all the birthday parties.
I was certain that he and my mom were madly in love. Their disagreements were rare, and I noticed how he cared for her. He’d bring her a cup of tea or a glass of wine when she relaxed on the couch with her favorite show. In the morning, he would always be up before all of us, brewing coffee and making breakfast. He would make my mom a cup of coffee the way she liked it right before she’d come downstairs to the kitchen. He’d plan a surprise trip for her and her girlfriends, just because.
They spoke kindly to each other, and he never raised his voice at her. When I got older, I’d often catch them swimming in the pool together late at night, when my brother and I were supposed to be asleep. They made time to be together, just them, chatting and laughing, and I always thought that all families and couples were like that.
But there wasoneincident that made Roman's words feel real. Late one night, I was returning home from dance practice, and like usual, my friend dropped me off. I walked through the door and kicked off my shoes, but my parents must not have heard me because their strained voices caught my attention immediately. It sounded like my mom was forcefully trying to convince my father of something.
You can’t bulldoze your way through people’s lives like always. Figure out how to make this one exceptionally clean. It can never be traced back to Anders.
I padded into the kitchen, and their conversation ended abruptly, quickly changing to something random. My mother was dainty and charming, but that voice, thattone,was not something I could ever forget. I’d never heard her speak like that before or after.
I was so curious to find out what they were discussing, but she shut down my questions irrevocably, never bringing the topic or that voice back again. But I never forgot what she said that night, when she thought they were alone.
Bulldozing through someone's life? Exceptionally clean? Trace back to Anders? If my dad was indeed involved in something nefarious, these words now blazed in my mind like a neon sign.
