Page 115 of King of Obsession

Without warning, the cafe’s cheerful chatter died as a familiar Ram 1500 truck screeched into the parking lot.

I sliced my eyes to the unfolding view.

Four men swung out of the car, and I froze. I recognizedthem as I locked on their swaggering progress toward the diner’s front door.

Fuck.

All thugs were toting guns in open carry disdain.

I was not the only apprised of the impending danger.

I leaned into my woman as people scrambled to get out of the place from the second door to the eatery’s rear.

‘Trust me, stay put, I’ll be back,’ I growled to Cleo.

Her eyes widened, and her face lost color, but she nodded.

I melted into the departing crowd.

Chapter 23

CLEO

The cafe’s entrance swung open with a chime.

The staff, bustling about moments ago, appeared to vanish into thin air, behind closed doors. An eerie silence descended upon the room, broken only by heavy footsteps against the linoleum floor.

Four men strutted into the cafe, their posture oozing arrogance and menace. Their eyes scanned the room like hunters searching for prey.

I froze, realizing, with a shard of frigid angst, why Alessio had slipped out.

The Contis were on the prowl, and not just the sons.

The father himself.

Franco swaggered into the space, a towering figure, his presence heavy and hard.

The years had carved deep lines into his weathered face,each crease telling a story of violence, power, and survival.

His dark hair, cut close to the skull, had turned all silver. His skin, tanned and rough like worn leather, was marked with tattoos—inked symbols of his past that wound around his forearms and up his neck, disappearing beneath his top collar.

The faded designs, from the snapping shark on his bicep to the snake coiled around his wrist, hinted at the ominousness oozing from him. The tattoos were old, their edges blurred, but they still held a quiet warning, reminders of battles fought and won.

His cold and calculating eyes were the color of steel, hardened from years of seeing too much. They missed nothing, scanning the room with a sharpness that left no room for doubt—this man was vicious.

His thick and scarred hands rested loosely at his sides, but they held an underlying tension, like a tight spring ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

The sweats he wore, which I deduced were fresh from prison, couldn’t mask the raw, nasty edge of him.

Seeing him sent splinters of panic over me, an anxiety attack threatening.

Here was a man who had built his largesse through blood and brutality, and the air around him crackled with terror.

Bill, jaw firm, body braced for trouble, emerged from around the counter, his smaller frame juxtaposed against the newcomer’s formidable figure.

‘Franco, you and your boys will either put those guns away, or you’ll need to leave now,’ he admonished.

The Conti Don pressed his mouth into a thin, bitter line.

---