Page 64 of Dark Obsession

His smile sours. “Laugh all you want now, Grigori. You won’t be laughing much when you’re watching everything you care about burn.” He steps closer, gesturing broadly to his drug-laden fortress. “You think you Ivanovs have it all locked down? Wrong. We’re going to bleed your Bratva dry. Let’s see how cocky you are with nothing left but rubble.”

He’s not all talk, that much is clear. But I can’t show him a hint of alarm. Instead, I let my eyes wander back to the stacks of weapons, calculating distances, planning the timing of my next move. I can feel the weight of every armed guard around us, every itchy trigger finger.

For now, though, I play the part he expects, calm and indifferent, allowing him to keep talking.

“Now,” Claudio says, stopping near a stack of crates stamped with labels in Spanish and Russian and turning to face me, his grin widening, “you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment, Grigori. To finally repay you for what you did to us all those years ago. Your little one-man show nearly wiped us out.”

I catch his eye, my face a cold mask. “You mean when I cleaned up your filth? I’d do it all over again.”

His jaw twitches but the smile never fades. “Tough talk for a dead man. I could’ve killed you on sight but,” he pauses, savoring each word, “the boss? He’s got a soft spot for you, says he wants to take his revenge out on you personally, and that you owe him more than just your life.”

Oscar Molina. The bastard really is back in town. The pieces are all falling into place, but I don’t flinch. I give Claudio a slow, dangerous smile, enough to remind him who he’s dealing with.

“Bring him out, then,” I say. “Let’s settle this.”

Sanchez’s grin is wide, teeth glinting with the kind of sick joy only a man like him could have. “Oh, you want to see the boss?” He gestures toward a staircase leading up to a glass-walled office overlooking the warehouse floor. “Follow me.”

I follow without a word, barely able to hold back the rage building in my chest. The office has a bird’s-eye view of the entire operation, guards and grunts moving below like ants on a rotten carcass. Yet there’s no sign of Molina.

“What kind of game are you trying to play here, Sanchez?” I snarl, impatience coating every word.

He snickers, a hand gesturing toward the chair in front of the desk. “Sit down, Grigori. Make yourself comfortable.”

The last thing I feel is comfortable, but I lower myself into the chair, cold leather pressing against my back. My eyes lock onto an open laptop sitting at the center of the desk. The screen flickers to life, revealing live footage. It takes a heartbeat to register what I’m looking at—Elena—bound, her wrists tiedtightly, her mouth gagged.

My vision goes red.

“What the hell is this?” I growl, hands gripping the arms of the chair so hard they start to give. I whip my head around to look at Sanchez, who’s practically vibrating with glee.

“Relax, tough guy,” he sneers. “Just a little motivation.”

Suddenly, a familiar face fills the screen. It’s Oscar, grinning from ear to ear, his cold eyes gleaming with the thrill of revenge. “Grigori,” he says smoothly, relishing each syllable, “I thought it was time for a little reunion.”

“You’re going to regret this, Molina,” I growl, teeth bared. “Let her go, or I swear—”

Molina holds up a hand, feigning concern. “Let her go? Why would I do that when she’s the perfect bait? I should thank you actually. Your little New York escapade gave me just the opening I needed.” He grins, evil and dark. “While you were wasting time there, I went right to the source.”

My hands are trembling with the urge to reach through the screen and tear him apart. “If you touch a hair on her head—”

“Oh, you’ll see her again soon, Grigori. Come back quickly. We have much to discuss.”

With that, the screen cuts to black, leaving only the faint echo of his maniacal laughter.

I stare at the dead laptop, seething, as Sanchez leans in with a smug smirk. “Tough day, eh?” he sneers. “Don’t worry, if you play nice, maybe you’ll get there in time to say goodbye.”

I turn to face him, fury in my eyes, but he just laughs. “You’re in over your head, Grigori. If you want her to live, you’re coming with me. And you’d better not try anything stupid.” He gestures to his men, each of their weapons aimed directly at me. “Surrender your gun, your burner—everything. You’re going to play by our rules now.”

My mind races, caught between rage and desperation. I reach into my jacket, pulling out my burner phone and the handgun stashed there, handing both over with a glare that could shatter glass. But as Sanchez reaches for them, I subtly slide a finger over the keypad, typing a quickSOS message to Alexei.

If anything happens to me, he’ll know to go after Molina.

“Smart move,” Sanchez says, shoving my phone into his pocket. He motions to his men. “Get him in the car. We’re heading to the airport.”

I follow, slipping into the back seat, anger and dread gnawing at my core. Chicago’s a death trap now, but if it means getting Elena back alive, I’ll walk straight into it without a second thought.

As the car lurches forward, Sanchez leans over from the front, grinning like he’s already won.

“We’ll be traveling in a private jet, courtesy of Mr. Molina himself,” he says, rubbing salt into the wound. “We’ll be in Chicago before sunrise. And more likely than not, you’ll be in a grave before sunset.”

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