The Devil's Obsession

The Auto Shop Reckoning

The auto shop sat on the edge of the industrial district, wedged between a tire warehouse and a chain-link fence that had seen better days. The sign out front—Morrison's Auto Repair—flickered weakly in the early morning light, half the letters burned out.

Malachi pulled his black Mercedes into the gravel lot and killed the engine.

Jackson sat in the passenger seat, silent and alert. He'd been with Malachi long enough to know when his boss was in a particular mood. This morning, that mood was cold. Controlled. Dangerous.

"You want me to come in?" Jackson asked.

"Yeah." Malachi's voice was flat. "Stand by the door. Don't say anything unless I tell you to."

Jackson nodded once and climbed out of the car.

Malachi followed, adjusting his cufflinks as he surveyed the shop. It was early—just past seven—and the place was barely awake. A few cars sat in the lot waiting for service. The bay doors were open, revealing a cluttered workspace: tool chests, oil-stained floors, the skeletal remains of an engine on a workbench.

And there, in the back corner, was Demarcus.

He was bent over the hood of a sedan, a wrench in one hand, his phone in the other. He was laughing at something on the screen, completely oblivious to the two men walking toward him.

Malachi's jaw tightened.

This was the man who'd made Salome cry. The man who'd called her a hoe, a slut, a terrible mother. The man who'd left her standing on her porch, shaking and holding their son, while he drove away without a second thought.

Malachi's hands flexed at his sides.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Demarcus."

The name cut through the shop like a blade.

Demarcus's head snapped up. His eyes landed on Malachi, then flicked to Jackson standing by the entrance—tall, broad-shouldered, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The color drained from Demarcus's face.

"Who—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Who are you?"

Malachi didn't answer right away. He walked slowly into the shop, his shoes crunching on the grit-covered floor. He moved like a man who had all the time in the world. Like he owned the space. Like Demarcus was already his.

He stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets, and studied the man in front of him.

Demarcus was younger than Malachi had expected—mid-twenties, maybe. Lean build, tattoos crawling up both arms, a gold chain around his neck that looked expensive. His work uniform was stained with grease, but his sneakers were pristine. Brand new Jordans.

Malachi's gaze flicked to the corner of the lot, where a sleek black motorcycle sat gleaming in the morning sun. Custom paint job. Chrome accents. Easily fifteen thousand dollars.

His eyes returned to Demarcus.

"Nice bike," Malachi said conversationally.

Demarcus blinked. "What?"

"The motorcycle." Malachi gestured toward it. "That yours?"

"Yeah." Demarcus's voice was wary now. Defensive. "Why?"

"Just curious." Malachi's tone remained pleasant. "How long have you had it?"

"A couple weeks. Look, man, I don't know who you are, but—"

"Three months," Malachi interrupted.

Demarcus froze.

"That's how long you've been late on child support," Malachi continued. His voice was still calm. Still conversational. But there was something underneath it now—something sharp and cold. "Three months. That's what, about twelve hundred dollars? Give or take?"

Demarcus's mouth opened, then closed. His eyes darted to Jackson, then back to Malachi.

"I don't—how do you—"

"You bought a fifteen-thousand-dollar motorcycle two weeks ago," Malachi said. "Custom paint. All the upgrades. But you can't pay four hundred dollars a month to support your son."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Demarcus's hands tightened on the wrench. "That's none of your business."

"It is now."

"Who the f**k are you?"

Malachi smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm someone who doesn't like seeing women disrespected," he said quietly. "Especially women I care about."

Demarcus's face went pale. "Salome?"

"Salome," Malachi confirmed.

"You—wait, you're the guy she—" Demarcus's expression twisted into something ugly. "She's f*****g you, isn't she? That's what this is about. She sent you here to—"

"She didn't send me anywhere." Malachi's voice dropped an octave. "She doesn't even know I'm here. This is me deciding that you're a problem. And I solve problems."

Demarcus took a step back. His bravado was crumbling fast.

"Look, man, I don't want any trouble—"

"Then you shouldn't have gotten in Salome's face yesterday."

Demarcus went still.

"You shouldn't have called her a hoe," Malachi continued. His tone was almost gentle now. Almost. "Or a slut. You shouldn't have told her she's a terrible mother. You shouldn't have made her cry in front of your son."

"I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me." The words were soft, but they landed like a punch. "I know exactly what you said. I know exactly what you did. And I know you've been doing it for a long time."

Demarcus's breathing quickened. His eyes flicked to the exit, but Jackson was still standing there, blocking the way.

"What do you want?" Demarcus's voice was barely above a whisper now.

Malachi took a step closer. Then another. He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was standing directly in front of Demarcus. Close enough that Demarcus had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.

"I want you to understand something," Malachi said quietly. "Salome is under my protection now. That means her son is under my protection. That means you don't get to disrespect her anymore. You don't get to call her names. You don't get to make her feel small. You don't get to touch her. Ever."

Demarcus swallowed hard.

"You're going to pay your child support," Malachi continued. "All of it. The three months you're behind, plus this month. You're going to have it transferred by the end of the week."

"I don't have—"

"Sell the bike."

Demarcus's eyes widened. "What? No, I just—"

"Sell. The bike." Malachi's voice was ice. "Or I'll have someone sell it for you. And trust me, you won't like the price they get."

Demarcus opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He nodded once, jerky and uncertain.

"Good." Malachi stepped back, giving him space. "You're also going to stop playing games with the custody schedule. If you're supposed to have Kai, you show up on time. You don't make excuses. You don't make her wait. You don't use your son as a weapon."

"I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were." Malachi's gaze was unrelenting. "You told her you'd bring Kai home early because he was fussy. Then you didn't show up. You made her leave where she was, rush home, and wait for you. That was a power play. It stops now."

Demarcus's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue.

"And one more thing," Malachi said. His voice dropped even lower. "If you ever—ever—talk to her that way again, I will make sure you regret it. Do you understand me?"

Demarcus nodded quickly. Too quickly.

"I need to hear you say it."

"I understand." Demarcus's voice cracked. "I won't—I won't. I swear."

"Good."

Malachi held his gaze for a long moment, letting the weight of his words settle. Then he turned and walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the quiet shop.

Jackson fell into step beside him.

They were almost to the door when Demarcus found his voice again.

"Who are you?" he called out. "What's your name?"

Malachi paused. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Malachi King."

The name hung in the air like a death sentence.

Demarcus's face went white. His hands started to shake.

He knew the name. Everyone in the city knew the name.

Malachi King. Leader of the Black Crown Syndicate. The man who controlled half the underground operations in the city. The man people whispered about in back rooms and dark alleys. The man you didn't cross unless you had a death wish.

And Demarcus had just been told that Salome—his ex-wife, the mother of his child—was under Malachi King's protection.

He'd f****d up. Badly.

Malachi didn't wait for a response. He walked out of the shop, Jackson at his side, and climbed into the Mercedes.

The engine purred to life.

As they pulled out of the lot, Jackson glanced at his boss.

"Think he'll comply?"

Malachi's expression was cold. "He will. He's too scared not to."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we'll have another conversation." Malachi's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "A much shorter one."

Jackson nodded. He didn't need to ask what that meant.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the city waking up around them. Then Jackson spoke again.

"She doesn't know you did this."

"No."

"You going to tell her?"

Malachi was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Not yet."

"She'll find out eventually."

"I know." Malachi's jaw tightened. "But right now, she needs to feel safe. She needs to know Demarcus isn't going to be a problem anymore. How that happens… she doesn't need to know the details."

Jackson didn't argue. He'd worked for Malachi long enough to understand how his boss operated. Malachi protected what was his. And whether Salome knew it yet or not, she was his.

Malachi pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.

Malachi: Good morning. How did you sleep?

He hit send and set the phone in the cupholder.

A few minutes later, it buzzed.

Salome: Better than I expected. You?

Malachi's expression softened—just slightly.

Malachi: Same. Let me know if you need anything today.

Salome: I will. Thank you.

He read her message twice, then set the phone down.

Jackson glanced at him. "You really care about her."

It wasn't a question.

Malachi didn't answer. He didn't need to.

He turned the car toward the city, his mind already moving to the next thing. There was always a next thing. Always another problem to solve, another fire to put out.

But for now, this problem was handled.

Demarcus would pay his child support. He'd stop playing games. He'd stop disrespecting Salome.

And if he didn't?

Malachi would make sure he understood exactly what happened to men who hurt the people he cared about.