Persephone
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- Parts 33
The morning sun was shining through the windows, bright and warm. The birds sang their tunes, and if I listen a little closer, I could hear the baby birds tweet to their parents from the nest in the tree outside.
The gramophone played a quiet tune that had me waltzing in my head even with the terrible news I was reading.
The war was continuing on, growing worse every day, but somehow that didn't bother me.
Knowing I was safe from Mr. Russo's eyes and threats was enough for me. To be able to sit here in the house I had sold last year to purchase this year with clean money while I sipped on coffee that I purchased with the money that I earned through talent was a greater gift than I could imagine.
That fear of corrupting darkness was behind me as I looked to the Broadway lights. My beacons of hope for a stable future and life for not only myself but those I love. Mr. Russo's underworld was only growing darker the deeper I crept. His coy offer that tempted me further into the darkness.
"I will not sell myself." I had told Mr. Russo.
"You will when you realize that it is the only way to keep those children from my grasp."
Edward's warm face flashed in my mind like the light at the end of a tunnel. He turned me away and led me to the better path, the path which saved my soul.
*Contains racial language some may find unappealing*
All Rights Reserved
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"What are you?" the older man questioned, his voice a chilling blend of authority and amusement, like a knife wrapped in silk. "Your wife," I replied softly, my tone laced with the submission he seemed to crave. "No," he murmured, his lips brushing mine, the words a dark caress that sent shivers through me. "You are my doll, milaya." He towered over me, his intimidating presence both suffocating and intoxicating. The nickname, spoken in that deep, accented voice, wrapped around me like a chain I couldn't help but love. "You are the only woman who is allowed to warm my bed at night," he said, his voice a dark melody, smooth but unnerving. "The only woman who's allowed to step into my office and bend over my desk, waiting for me to come home so I can fuck you." A cold, low chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound as sinister as it was intoxicating, sending shivers down my spine. ♡ Dimitri Mikhailov, the russian mobster. His presence filled the room like a storm. He didn't have to move or speak to dominate the room. Broad-shouldered and imposing, his scarred face told a thousand stories that he'd never waste words on. He was my husband and I was his precious doll.
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