Page 72 of King of Obsession

So I did the only thing I could.

I twisted my lip, swiveled, and strode away.

Chapter 14

ALESSIO

Groveling fuckin’ sucked.

My version involved physical servitude: trudging across Cleo’s property with a spool of wire and a hammer hanging from my belt loop.

The sun beat down on my neck as I surveyed the crooked, splintered fence posts jutting from the soil.

I started at one corner, where the perimeter line disappeared into overgrown blackberry bushes. Cursing under my breath, I fought through the thorns, ripping my shirt sleeve.

There - a broken slat dangled limply, the rusted nails just about holding it in place. I yanked it free and tossed it aside.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I selected a fresh board from the stack I’d hauled over in my SUV.

With precise whacks, I nailed it into position, the ringing of metal on metal echoing across the fields.

This shit was so far removed from the boardrooms and backstreet brawl clubs I’d become so used to.

It called on my military experience and brought back old memories.

It also purified the soul and helped to beat back my demons.

I took my time along the boundary, walking the fence lines and stopping every few feet to mend a weak spot.

I plugged knotholes with wood putty, twisted errant wires back into alignment, and replaced rotted posts knocked askew by fallen tree limbs.

I went as far as the Conti compound.

Studying the farmstead for a long time from beneath a stand of trees, as I’d done several mornings now, gathering intel and planning an infil while I paid penance for my sins.

Hours slipped by under the relentless Australian sun. My hands were nicked and raw, and dirt caked the sweat on my arms, but still, I continued, fueled by a grim resolve to do right by her.

The systematic work helped calm my restless thoughts.

I got back to the cabin by mid-afternoon.

Her door was still shut, and silence reigned.

I searched around for what more I could do and spotted the loose slates on her outhouse.

Clambering up the rickety ladder propped against the small building, I balanced precariously on the top rung, a stack of shingles tucked under one arm.

The old roof was a patchwork of rot and broken tiles, the exposed plywood beneath buckling from many rain seasons.

I pried off the damaged panels one by one, tossing them into the overgrown grass below with a satisfying thump. Sweat trickled down my back as I worked, the air heavy with thescent of pine sap and distant wood smoke.

With care, I aligned the new roofing, hammering each into place with precise strikes.

The shadows grew long, and the cicadas began their evening song when I hammered the last staple.

I stood back, surveying my work with weary satisfaction.

It wasn’t enough to atone for what I’d done. But it was a start.

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