Page 9 of King of Obsession

I was not moved.

Over the years, I’d built a shell around me. A thick one that belied my face.

Hell, I didn’t care about my looks.

While I maintained my fitness and was partial to the occasional tailored suit, I’d found that focusing too much on my appearance drew the wrong attention.

Thank fuck for my father, Stephano, and his wisdom.

‘Alessio,’ he’d told me when I’d expressed frustration in my late teens with my physicality and the negative regard it attracted. ‘No amount of handsomeness can make up for a rotten soul and slow mind. Like someone once said, beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.’

I’d taken the learning to heart and refused to let my ego or dick guide my actions. Leaning instead on my wits and fists.

My phone kept ringing.

‘Got to go,’ I grunted to the woman crowding me, rolling my jade bead talisman in one hand.

I headed for the exit. ‘See you around.’

‘Fuck you,’ she spat, glared at me as I swept past. ‘I can do better.’

I paused, tilted my head to her, and arched a brow. ‘We all can. We just have to believe in ourselves.’

She cursed; I ignored her.

Stalking away, I savored the rush of being alive and in command.

Because control was fleeting in the real world, my condition saw to that: the shakes, the heated fevers, the perpetual battle to keep myself in check.

In the ring, though? I was the master of my fate—the king of my little kingdom.

Again and again, for as long as it took until my nightmares rested.

This was more than just a hobby; it was more than a way to blow off steam.

It was my lifeline. My anchor in a reality caught in constant flux.

A week later, I was on a plane headed to Sydney.

When I landed in the Harbor City, the bullish, tall, and scary mofo of our famiglia’s guardsman was waiting in the airport arrivals lounge.

He whisked me to his SUV, and I settled in with a chin jerk.

‘Good to see you, Mauri, but fuck, your ride reeks like a freakin’ onion stand because of all your damn fried rings you never stop devouring.’

‘It’s the cat food, you fucker,’ he growled. ‘And show your consigliere some fucking respect if you’re going to cruise with me.’

He gave me a fake glare, and we exchanged smirks, falling right back into our shit-eating grins and sketchy, crude banter on the drive to Sydney’s North Shore.

We pulled into Lorenzo’s home, and I fell into the arms of my brother and his woman, Mia.

Dinner that evening was a much-needed catch-up, filled with laughter and reminiscing about the old days.

Our youngest sibling, Vitto, showed up, and in no time, the warmth of family enveloped me.

Lorenzo’s residence was a sanctuary where I could be myself and let down my guard.

We sat around the table, savoring Mia’s delicious meal, sharing stories and jokes, and basking in each other’s company.

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