Page 1 of Savage Obsession

CHAPTER 1

Baz

Tenerife, 2023

The woman appears competent enough, if one or two paragraphs on the report emailed over by the agency is any guide. I prefer to rely on my own judgement, which is less glowing than the effusive claims made by the recruitment consultant. I need a cook and housekeeper, not a rocket scientist.

“Have you worked in a professional kitchen, Señora Hernandez? What are your specialities?” I like my food, this is important.

I’m met by a barrage of Spanish, punctuated by frantic hand-signalling.

“Whoa.” I insert a hand signal of my own. “My Spanish is crap. Can you translate to English?” Was I not specific in my briefing to the agency? Fluent English essential.

Señora Hernandez—Sophia, she insists—switches with enviable ease. “My apologies, señor. I have worked in high-end restaurants in Madrid and Malaga. I can provide references…”

She had better. It’s bad enough that I’m so desperate that I’m hiring household staff without the proper and full vetting procedures. At the very least I’ll need some decent testimonials to fall back on. I thumb through the documents provided, which are naturally all in Spanish, and pick out the most likely ones. A quick scan highlights words like confiable, puntual, honesta. Reliable, punctual, and honest. Fair enough to start with, but the proof of the pudding will be in the eating—literally. I need to know if this woman can cook.

“I’ll give you a week’s trial,” I offer. “Then we’ll reassess. If I decide to appoint you, it will be a live-in position, but until then, you’ll understand…”

“Of course, of course, señor. One cannot be too careful.”

No, one can’t. Especially in my line of work. I’m second-in-command and chief enforcer for Kristian Kaminski. Our firm runs pretty much the entire night-time economy on Tenerife, an operation we took by force having killed the previous incumbents. My boss prefers to refer to it as ‘eliminating’. I tend to leave the diplomacy to him. I prefer plain-speaking. It avoids misunderstandings.

The Domingos may be history, but their legacy of intimidation lives on, and their wider network remains alive and kicking on the Spanish mainland. It’s part of my role on the island to make sure they stay there and off our turf.

I moved into Los Viñedos, the sprawling hacienda previously the home of Carlos Domingo, almost two months ago. My boss prefers to live on his yacht, but I have a preference for the space and security of dry land. In any case, he’s away right now on a sort of pre-marriage honeymoon cruise, leaving me to hold the fort on my own. It’s no big deal. It’s what I’m good at, making sure people know who’s in charge and what’s expected of them.

Like I say, avoid misunderstandings.

I eye the prim-looking female before me. Thin as a rake, rimless spectacles, greying hair scraped back in a severe bun. Her features are elegant, and I suppose she might have been attractive a couple of decades ago. Not beautiful exactly, but handsome. Not my type, really, even then. I prefer my women more substantial, curvy, and with a ready laugh. I wonder when Señora Sophia Hernandez last cracked a smile, but that’s hardly relevant. I need someone to feed me, not fuck me.

Her somewhat austere dress style is more reminiscent of an English country estate, not especially suited to the subtropical climate here in the Canary Islands, let alone a working kitchen. Woollen skirt, calf-length, pale-grey blouse buttoned up to the throat, tweed jacket, a shiny black leather handbag balanced on her knees, and shoes best described as sensible.

The more closely I inspect her, the less convinced I am that she’ll fit in here at Los Viñedos. I give myself a mental shake. I should at least give her a chance, especially if I want to improve on the microwave dinners I’ve been relying on for the past few weeks.

“When can you start?”

“Tomorrow,” she assures me. “This trial period, is it paid?”

“Yes. How does forty-eight euros a day sound?” I’m making this up as I go along, and that’s barely above minimum wage for casual staff here. “I’m prepared to go to a hundred a day if we decide to proceed.”

“Most generous, señor.” She offers me her hand. “Until tomorrow, then. I shall be here at nine in the morning.”

“Make it seven. You can start with my breakfast. I need to leave the hacienda by eight.”

“Seven o’clock. Of course.” She seems very eager to please.

I’m guessing she needs this job, and I can’t help wondering why, if she comes so highly recommended. More mental shaking. Time will tell.

I get to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to meet some potential gardeners.”

More agency recommendations beckon.

At least I’m not in the market for a head groom to see to the half dozen thoroughbreds munching their way through the grass in the top meadow. Los Viñedos is famed for the top-class racehorses we breed here. Along with murder, torture, and making obscene amounts of money, the breeding of purebred Arabian horses was the passion of the previous occupant, and when we removed him from this life, he left his babies behind. I wasn’t that interested in the animals initially. I’ve never had anything to do with horses, but I’m assured that they are a lucrative investment and the growing popularity of horse-racing in Morocco offers a ready market. In particular, a grey stallion by the name of True is slated to be a winner, if not on the track, then at stud. I decided to let well enough alone and kept on the head groom, a taciturn individual by the name of José. At least until a thorough background vetting told me otherwise.

It didn’t. He came up clean as a whistle so he can stay. What he doesn’t know about horses isn’t known anywhere. One less thing to worry about, and I’ve developed a soft spot for the horses. Beautiful creatures, elegant and perfectly designed for their purpose in life, if somewhat high maintenance and temperamental. A grudging respect has developed into genuine affection, and I start most days with an early morning stroll down to the stables.

But, back to the gardeners. Two hours and six hopefuls later, I’ve offered a trial period to one Felippe de Podesta. His command of English is rudimentary at best, but he does at least look the part. Weatherbeaten, lined features, hands like shovels, and grimy overalls that make me fear for the delicate upholstery in the main salon at Los Viñedos. Still, he won’t be indoors that often, and I expect any housetraining can safely be left to Señora Hernandez.

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