Page 7 of King of Obsession

I clenched my jaw. ‘Fotto. I wonder if she’s privy to his release?’

‘Non penso.’

‘Can you get eyes on her?’

‘Like I said, we’re thin on the ground, but we could stake her out for a few nights.’

I cursed, then sighed. ‘I’m coming in.’

‘You sure, padrone?’

‘It’s the right thing to do.’

‘Also, along with the Contis and their shit, a local Mafia clan holds sway in the region. The Caputos.’

‘Then they’ll fuckin’ pay me respect.’

I made my plans fast.

The following day, I was in my office, working with my PA, Sandra, to book tickets, move meetings around, and leave New York.

By the end of the day, reservations had been scheduled, and clients were informed. I had a global moving company locked in and a first-class fare to Sydney the following week.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the familiar itch beneath my skin.

The restless energy that could only be sated one way.

I glanced at the clock—7:30 PM.

Plenty of time.

After checking that the door was secured, I shrugged off my suit jacket and loosened my tie, a transformation already underway.

I slipped into gym sweats and allowed myself a moment to roll my shoulders, to feel the coiled power waiting to be unleashed.

Then, I was out, navigating the city streets with a singular purpose.

I was apprised of the spots, the secret places where men like me gathered to test their mettle, where the only currency that mattered was the ability to take a punch and keep standing.

I snuck into a nondescript warehouse in the heart of the Bronx, the ambiance thick with the tang of sweat and blood. The crowd parted as I made my way to the makeshift ring, whispers of recognition trailing in my wake.

‘Diavolo d’oro,’ they called me. The Golden Devil.

A name earned through a wealth of gore and bruises, the ruthless efficiency of my punches, and the incongruousness of my features.

I stripped down to my waist, the chill air prickling my skin. My opponent, a tattooed brute with a broken nose, sneered at me from across the arena.

‘Ready to dance, pretty boy?’

I smirked, settling into a fighting stance. ‘Let’s see if you can keep up.’

My world narrowed, coalescing on this perfect moment: winning the clash—the raw, visceral thrill of it—fists and feet, sweat, and snarls.

I lost myself in the rhythm of the blows, in the brutal joy of it all, relishing how wild, savage, and alive it made me.

In the fight circle, there was no pretense, no masks to wear. Just the pure, unadulterated truth of who I was. A fighter down to my bones.

As my fist connected with my opponent’s jaw, I felt a sense of rightness settle over me as he crumpled to the mat.

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