Page 14 of Dark Obsession

There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting them get anywhere near her again. If they try to, I’ll take all of them out myself.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I think about her. I can still feel the curve of her hips beneath my hands, the way her body fit against mine, the taste of her mouth when I kissed her. The memory of last night rushes in, and it’s distracting.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

I shake my head, trying to focus. I don’t have time for this right now. I need to keep my head clear. But fuck, it’s hard when she’s all I can think about.

I can’t get the image of her out of my head—her body curled up against mine as she slept last night. The soft rise and fall of her chest, the way she looked so peaceful, so fucking beautiful. I’ve wanted her for as long as I can remember, but I never thought last night would be the night it finally happened.

And now, all I want is more of her—her taste, her warmth, her body pressed against mine. The way she came undone underneath me, how she moaned my name. I want to bury myself inside her again, to make her come over and over until she forgets everything but us.

I force the thoughts away as I drive. I can’t afford to let my mind wander like this. Not when there’s so much at stake.

I think about Luk, Yuri, and Lev—her brothers, my friends. They’ve always been protective of Elena, watching over her like hawks. If they knew what happened between us... Christ, they’d lose it. Luk would break my jaw. Yuri and Lev wouldn’t be far behind, maybe breaking my arms and legs.

No way in hell would they be okay with what went down.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. It can’t happen. They can’t know. I won’t let that break loose, not while the Molina Cartel’s breathing down my neck. Whatever happened between Elena and me stays between us. For now.

I pull into Little Village, and it’s exactly what I expect: gritty streets, lined with aging buildings and faded storefronts. Theneighborhood’s rough, but it’s alive in that way only a place on the edge can be—hustle, grind, and desperation all mixed together. It’s the perfect place for someone like Dollar to hide in plain sight.

I park outside The Velvet Den, a strip club whose glory days are long gone. The neon sign flickers, half the lights burned out, the exterior paint is peeling, revealing grime underneath. It looks like a place people go to disappear. Fitting. Strip clubs have never been my thing, and the thought of being in one on a Saturday afternoon is depressing as hell. But I’ve got business here.

I step inside and pay the cover without making a scene. Keeping a low profile is key right now. Inside, the place is dark, lit mostly by dim, flashing lights meant to distract you from how rundown it really is. At one point, it might’ve been high-end, but those days are over. The carpet’s sticky, the tables worn, and the strippers look bored, going through the motions for an audience that’s barely paying attention.

I make my way to the bar, ignoring the grinding bodies on stage. The bartender gives me a glance, pretending he doesn’t know who I am.

“I want to see Dollar,” I say, leaning in close.

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender grunts.

I give him a cold look. “You know who I am?”

That gets his attention. His face goes pale, and he nods quickly, understanding the implication. “Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The bartender leads me through the back halls of The Velvet Den, the thumping bass vibrating through the walls. The stench of stale booze and sweat lingers in the air, and the whole place makes my skin crawl.

We head upstairs, the noise below muffled as we approach a door. The bartender knocks, and after a second, I hear a voice call out.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and I step inside. The room overlooks the main floor, giving Dollar a view of the entire place. It’s decked out in faux-leather furniture that’s seen better days, stacks of money and lines of powder are spread across the table in front of him. A couple of strung-out strippers lounge nearby, their eyes glazed over, barely aware of what’s going on. It doesn’t take a detective to know what Dollar’s been up to.

Dollar is a heavyset guy, mid-40s, with a gold chain around his neck and a gut spilling out over his pants. His hair’s slicked back. It’s got a greasy sheen that matches his overall vibe. The second he lays eyes on me, his face falls. He knows I’m not here for a friendly chat.

I pull out my gun and nod to the bartender. “Sit.”

The bartender doesn’t argue, dropping into a nearby chair without a word.

I turn to Dollar, my voice low and dangerous. “Don’t move unless you want to die in this shithole.”

Dollar freezes, sweat already starting to bead on his forehead.

The strippers glance at me, their eyes wide, panic starting to flicker beneath the surface. I raise my hand, a wordless signalthat I’m not here to hurt them. They catch on quick, staying put, frozen in their drugged haze. The bartender slumps in his chair, realizing what deep shit he’s in.

Dollar, on the other hand, tries to put on a show. He leans back, crossing his arms over his gut, trying to project some kind of bravado. “You think you can just come in here, point a gun, and start barking orders? You’re inmyplace. I’ve got people—”

I let him run his mouth for a moment, listening as he talks big, watching his eyes dart to the door, calculating some kind of escape plan. But he’s not getting out of this, and he knows it. I wait until the words hang in the air, giving him enough rope to hang himself with.

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